


Pain Management

by TheGracefulBlueCat



Series: Pain Management & Missing Scenes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Caring John, Charles Augustus Magnussen Being Creepy, Crying, Desperate Sherlock, Doctor John, Drugged Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fainting, Hospitals, Hurt John, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Intense pain, Medical Procedures, Medication, Missing Scene, Pain, Painkillers, Sedation, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock is a Mess, Spoilers, Vulnerable Sherlock, collapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8683099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGracefulBlueCat/pseuds/TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: This is a collection of missing scenes from 'His Last Vow'. The main topics for this collection are the suffering and handling of mental or physical agony. Be aware, loads of angst, hurt, comfort, pain and suffering. More inside - SPOILERT ALERT!





	1. Post-OP

**Author's Note:**

> Don't read if you haven't seen the episode, yet; this contains major spoilers!
> 
> I have to admit two scenes from the episode triggered me (like in PTSD), caught me quite off guard.  
> I love the episode so having it trigger me was not an option - because the next times I want to watch the episode untriggered :)  
> -
> 
> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock regains consciousness right after the operating theater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta-read by CiCi98!  
> All the following scenes deal with the events that followed the shooting in Magnussen's apartment.

 

 

Fight…

The memory of his fight to get back up the stairs jerked through his mind.

He needed to fight!

He had been in an operating theatre.

Fight…

…for John.

Protect John from Mary.

He needed to wake up now!

There were noises all around him. His eyes jerked open.

He was in a large room with several beds and people in OP-clothing.

Someone was next to the bed. In a long, blue paper robe, mouth-cover and a bonnet. He blinked… Where was he?

The haze that disrupted his environment cleared maddening slowly and the noise of busy and hurting people gained unnerving quality.

Post OP…

He had been awake briefly in the operating theatre before, he remembered.

People there had talked to him; they seemed agitated… and then put him under in a hurry.

The memory felt uneasy and had an aspect of… panic… utter disturbing panic.

It felt too real, too vulnerable.

Therefore, he must be in post OP now, it was all blurred… the memories, his sight, and his mind.

The palace mixed with reality… Then the pain was registered by his foggy brain… he hurt!

It hurt as much as it had shortly after he was hit…

Now, he needed _not_ to fight the pain… let it pass… He knew that he needed to let it pass, but his brain was too dazed to start the mechanism again that enabled him to do so.

The figure next to him was watching him... he was in a regular bed already.

Okay, so surgery was definitely over.

He tried to swallow… his mouth was dry… it hurt.

He needed to find that mechanism he usually used to release endorphins into his bloodstream… He had learned how to do that years ago… why wasn't he able to do it now?

He knew how to start it, but it didn't work.

"Sherlock?" the blurry figure touched his hand and when he looked up it was John's eyes that looked down at him… it was John in the concealing outfit…?

That was good, he didn't want to be touched by anybody else… unfamiliar people had touched him enough in the theatre and it had been…

But there was something important…

Oh, it was burning with importance in the back of his mind.

What was it, what was it?

He felt a distant realisation that the bright importance was mingled with bright blue panic.

What was it?

It must be John, nothing else would trigger this level of importance… John was in danger.

Mary! He needed to tell John he was in danger.

He tried to speak, but nothing came out… His throat was sore and it was painful to even try to speak.

He wanted to grasp his friend's sleeve, but his hand was barely moving and he was clumsy. He realised he was trembling slightly.

"M'ry…" he managed a whisper - on the third try.

"Sherlock, it's okay, mate… You're fine… Wake up fully and we can give you something for the pain," John gently intoned.

"Ma'y…" Sherlock tried to sit up.

Pain jerked through him.

Oh, god! It hurt!

Loud noises erupted around him, multiple voices, calling, yelling, hands touching him.

It hurt, made him wish to lose consciousness again… but he needed to speak to John!

No sleeping for now!

The pain kept him from sinking back into the dark… he just needed a few breaths… before he'd be able to open his eyes again.

Something touched is forehead… there was talking over the noises in the room… John was talking.

"Sherlock…? Are you with me…? Don't move! You'll hurt yourself."

He realised John was holding him down, gently and with care.

Someone was fumbling with something on his arm.

When he finally managed to open his eyes again John removed one of his hands… a nurse was doing something with his IV port.

"Talk to me Sherlock… Tell me, how are you?"

"W'rs M'ry?" he tried again, "Sta'way."

"Sherlock? You want me to go away?"

He shook his head, at least this couldn't be misinterpreted. As long as his friend was with him he was not with Mary, which protected him.

John needed to stay with him. He wanted the nurse to leave him alone and John to stay away from Mary.

"How do you feel?"

"Shot…Wh'…. Wher's Mary?"

"Are you in pain?" the nurse asked him loudly.

Of course he was in pain, what a stupid question. Her loud voice added to the discomfort but he had not enough strength to inform her about that.

So he ignored her.

"John… Ma'y… Mary is… I… Magnuss'n…"

His mouth was… odd  and it hurt more and more to speak.

"Sherlock? Don't try to move or talk, your throat is irritated from the tube. You had the bullet removed. It'll need time but you'll be alright… You'll endanger your life if you move, so calm down," John soothed. Sherlock could see the other man was really worried… he had dark circles under his eyes and seemed a bit unsteady on his feet.

"How do you feel?" the nurse repeated.

"Don't wait for his answer, he's with us, give him the painkiller," John told her. Despite his pale appearance, his voice was steady and professional.

"He has not yet responded."

"He has - in _his_ way, let me do this," John held out his hand for the pump's remote, the nurse looked over at the other doctor in the room - who nodded - and she handed the device over.

Sherlock knew what was about to happen… he tried to reach for the remote, but pain shot through his chest, making him gasp for air.

"Sherlock, I'll give you something for the pain, relax, it'll be better in a minute."

"No," Sherlock managed to moan, lifting his arm again, "Don't…"

John looked down at him, obviously puzzled.

"You don't want painkillers?"

 Sherlock shook his head.

"Sorry, Sherlock, but this is nuts. I know how it feels to get shot. I also know how much strain this level of pain puts a on your body, which interferes with healing. Not happening."

It was true, he felt sore and hurt all over, but he _first_ needed to tell John in which immediate danger he was.

He once more shook his head, it agitated his chest and he hissed in pain.

"Why not…?"

John was always asking the right questions when it came to him feeling bad, for once he was glad for this; now that speech was difficult to manage.

"Mary…" he tried to hold out his hand to signal John he meant it. But either his hand didn't move or John ignored it.

"What is it…? You're in severe pain here and right now we need to concentrate on getting you through this."

Sherlock tried to sit up again, although he barely managed to move, but it was enough for the former army doctor, who leaned forward and pushed the button - twice.

John was sure Sherlock would kill himself if he'd try to get up now, he was also sure the morphine would knock him out, which was the only way to keep him from moving.

With horror, Sherlock felt the warm rush of the drug that was pumped into his body.

No!

How could they dose him with opioids when John was usually so sensible when it came to drugs? Doctors were odd with this. It was okay as long as they were the ones making the decision.

He felt a moan escape his mouth, a sound of frustration. He knew he'd be out soon.

A bit uncoordinated he tried once more to reach for John's hand.

Who was exchanging worried gazes and words with other people outside Sherlock's field of vision.

Why didn't he listen?

"Don't… tell… "

The pain receded… but he felt his body starting to float.

He needed to make John understand!

Finally, he managed to raise his head a few centimetres and get a hold on John's sleeve.

"It's all right, Sherlock… Relax…"

One of John's hands was on his shoulder, the other on top of his head… John sounded agitated.

"Geez, don't move!… Just relax!"

He tried to fight it.

Tell him!

"Shhh… Just sleep… It's all right."

He blinked, took a deep breath, but before he could say any more he felt his body surrender to the drug.

Briefly, he wondered how much he had been given.

Must have been quite a dose…

His eyes closed involuntarily and the last thing he knew was John's warm hand on his.

 

 


	2. Sherlock's room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up for the second time, still in severe pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

He was floating... the world was orange.

The familiar sensation of morphine in his system.

Hospital, right.

Had Mary been in here a moment ago?

Or was it a dream?

He knew he was hurting - a lot - it was just hidden behind some artificial barrier.

His body remembered the sensation of the tube in his throat, it made him shudder.

He should hurt, shouldn't he?

Something moved… was it Mary?

She had told him not to tell John?

He blinked.

Pain.

Something cold touched his forehead.

He tried to open his eyes, but they were too heavy.

The cold moved over his face, it felt good.

There was someone… making noises?

Or was Mary talking to him again?

No, it was a pitiful low noise… and his throat hurt.

For god's sake!

It was _his_ stubborn transport that made the noises.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John's voice.

John was here?

"Joo'n?" his voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

"Right here… open your eyes."

He did, it was work.

John was there, normal clothes.

For what must have been more than a minute, Sherlock just stared at his friend, glad he wasn't alone – as he had been the last time he woke up in a hospital while hunting down Moriarty's men.

"There you are," John smiled and seemed relieved.

They were in a room - no post-OP - a normal room… so better and on the mend.

Blinking and swallowing turned out to be as difficult as opening his eyes had been.

"You want something do drink?" John asked.

He nodded.

"Don't try to move. I can't raise your head, yet. So you need to use a straw - for now... Slow, don't choke on it."

Sherlock felt the plastic touch his lips and opened his mouth, it all seemed to take ages.

"Here you go."

The world was blurred and dark.

It was still night? How long had he been here?

He tried so suck on the thin thing but it took several tries before he managed to get some of the water into his mouth.

Feeling this helpless and weak was disgusting.

Uh, he realised there must be another disgusting thing hidden under the uncomfortable itchy blanket. He hissed with indignation.

"You okay?"

It was a quite stupid question – of course he wasn't... or was it a rhetoriacal question?

But John had criticised often enough that he needed a honest answer to that since he was a doctor.

"You were quite agitated when resurfacing right after surgery, they brought me in to calm you down. You remember that?" John continued when he didn't answer.

He remembered John being there, but nothing before that.

"Well, you tried to tell me something, you remember _that_?" John asked.

Of course he remembered that!

No one could forget something _this_ important… but he was mixed up, wasn't he?

Not sure about what he remembered and what not.

Had Mary really been in here?

If she had, why did she tell him not to tell John?

Was he too confused?

Had it really been Mary who shot him?

His memory about _that_ fact was quite clear… all that followed was a mixture of… his mind at work. He failed to distinguish where reality stopped and where his mind palace began.

His head was really messed up.

Had Mycroft been here?

Or had it been a thought process that had used her images as an aspect of his mind?

"Sherlock?"

John removed the straw and leaned over him, "Do you remember talking about my wife?"

Sherlock just stared at him.

His former flatmate looked bad…

Glad John was here.

It felt different to hurt and have him near - he had felt the contrast this time - to be in severe pain _and_ alone felt different

After the torture he had felt bad, that had been worse… on a completely different level. The physical pain - but John was here… and it made an aspect of the hurt change…

For the better?

Definitely.

Was this what was called 'comforting'?

He was grateful John was still with him. He didn't deserve it after the pain he had caused him.

John's pain… it would skyrocket the moment he learns that Mary was the shooter… it would cause so much more pain…

Was it a good idea to tell him _now_? When he himself was not able to soften the fall?

And he was not even able to think clearly?

Maybe he was wrong?

Definitely, he needed to be more alert to think about how to proceed and what was strategically a good plan - before talking to John.

"Sherlock?... I really hope you weren't dreaming about her inappropriately!"

It was obvious from John's voice that he was trying to joke about something.

But in fact… he had dreamt about her?

"You remember she visited you an hour ago? She was worried, too."

So she _had_ been in here - no dream, then.

"I… hmm… I… She…"

"Yes?" John looked at him, smiling fondly.

Sherlock looked around the room to make sure she was not here any longer.

"Wher's she?" he managed, it all felt like walking through molasses.

"Cancelling my appointments for tomorrow… and bringing Janine home."

"Uh… No," he heard himself moan - he had to get a grip on this, he sounded pathetic.

"What?… I'm sure your _girlfriend_ wants to see you as soon as possible… She doesn't know that you faked a proposal to use her – yet. But I fear she might suspects something. She has a mild concussion by the way."

"M'not," Sherlock managed.

Mary must have knocked out Janine, right?

Had Mary… Had she done the same he did? Befriended Janine because of her position as Magnuson's PA?

Double betrayal. Janine would be… outraged and she'd strike back as he knew her. He was not eager to see her in his current condition.

"Keep 'way," he mumbled.

"You want me to keep your girlfriend out?" John frowned. "Okay… but you deserve her rage, you know that, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded, "Lat'r."

"Right. I'll keep her out as long as possible… Won't be not able to keep Lestrade out, though."

"'kay."

"He'll want to know what happened. Who did this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock just stared at him, frowning. The light was irritating.

"Do you know who shot you?"

He gulped.

"What happened there?"

How to say this?

He managed to shake his head and with a confused frown John changed the topic.

"How are you feeling?"

"'m fine," Sherlock grunted and struggled to gulp.

"Cold," he added after another moment.

His chest was uncomfortably bare and he felt the pads affixed onto his chest… and all the cables and tubes attached to him.

They brought a dire need to get out of here, he felt caged and he wanted out!

Soon people would come in and touch him and poke and prod him.

Also, the dim orange light was driving him insane… no it wasn't the light… it was it's flickering.

The urgent need to scream in frustration and discomfort was hard to fight, but it would probably cause even more pain and was not worth the effort.

His eyes went through the room searching for the source of the rhythmic blinking.

"Fan… off."

"You want me to switch the fan off?" John repeated.

"Yes!"

The doctor hurried to do as asked.

"I wan'to go home," Sherlock whispered.

John rolled his eyes.

It made Sherlock feel even more miserable that his dire need was answered in such a way.

"You realise you almost died? You can _not_ move at all!" John sounded a bit angry somehow. "You'll risk internal bleeding if you do and that might kill you… Please…" John's tone had changed to something else for that last word, had switched from annoyed to afraid.

"I can't lose you again!… It'll take some time to recover from this. I'll give you the details later, but for now, you're very lucky to be alive and please do _not_ try to move."

"No... no drugs… " Sherlock pressed out.

"Why are you fighting the medication? You're in severe pain… You need to rest, Sherlock."

The detective tried to lift his head and find out in how much pain he really was by carefully moving. John's eyes went wide in alarm.

"Shit! Do you listen at all?"

Faster than Sherlock expected his friend leaned over him, grabbed both of Sherlock's shoulders and held him down - carefully. Sherlock hissed with the pain the movements caused.

"Le'mego," he mumbled.

"Damn it!... Stop it, right now!"

When Sherlock managed to open his eyes once more John was still leaning over him, one hand still on one of his shoulders. He had his weight on his other hand next to Sherlock's head on the pillow, invading his space a bit too much.

"Jesus, what the hell is happening? DO. NOT. MOVE!" he was almost yelling, distressed. John looked straight into his eyes, their faces not more than thirty centimetres apart.

Eyes full of worry looked down at him, John looked as if close to tears.

"This is stupid… I can't let you hurt yourself, I'm sorry."

Before Sherlock was able to protest the doctor had removed his hand from his shoulder and pressed a button somewhere.

Only seconds later he felt the drug take over.

For God's sake! Why did John do that?

He had been pissed when Sherlock had taken drugs on his own and now he was doing it himself? Where was the sense in that?

Sherlock reached out and felt John take his hand, he was still leaning over him - hovering to stop him from moving?

"This has to stop. You're safe… relax!"

"No…"

He was _not_ safe, Mary could come in here any time and finish the job.

Once more he tried to fight the medication but - the effort made his eyes water - again reality drifted  away within a few seconds.

His vision blurred.

He felt like falling and hoped the floating sensation would take over soon.

This was not nice when one doesn't want it… the last thing he needed right now would be any kind of a bad trip from this…

His eyes had closed.

No…

Hands on him…. soothed him and wiped his face with a cool washcloth.

He didn't know why… only that they felt kind of safe for a moment.

Then darkness took away perception and thinking.

 

….

 

Sherlock's sleep was fitful.

He seemed to have bad dreams and groaned in his sleep. Sometimes his breathing got agitated and several times John got the impression he was fighting to regain consciousness.

Twice in the early hours of the morning the detective managed to open his eyes for a few seconds, but John was sure he wasn't really aware, nevertheless he told to him to go back to sleep.

John stayed at his side all night and the doctor on duty agreed to keep the medication on the lowest possible level, just enough to keep him asleep, but it was still an unusual high dosage to keep him out.

The fact that Sherlock hated hospitals had John expect he'd try to get out… but not _this_ soon, and not with this kind of panic in his eyes. Sherlock was unreasonable when it came to his health, but this was more than beyond reason, this was borderline self-harming behaviour, maybe even suicidal.

Something was wrong.

The fact that Sherlock hadn't answered John's question who had shot him, although the doctor was quite sure his friend had heard and understood the question made John's blood run cold.

Also, Sherlock was fighting the drugs… which was so not good.

He hoped his friend was just babbling and out of it from the morphine, but after having seen Sherlock high recently he had to admit that the other man was not one of the persons who was affected like this from this kind of medication. Sherlock was neither a happy drunk – or better high in this case - nor anything else too far removed from his usual self.

John had never seen him talking nonsense from meds or anaesthesia, and he had seen many people react oddly from drugs, but never his friend. He still made a lot of sense when other people were in fact babbling. Even high he was quite able to behave so only people who know him well realised something was off.

The day before he had _showered_ off a high. John had just tried to catalogue his sweaty, dirty, unshaven appearance as potentially typical for his state when Sherlock had reappeared perfectly clean and appearing perfectly normal. John then realised it had all been part of the disguise and was deliberate. Now in hindsight he had time to think about what actually _was_ different.

It was his body language, it was somehow different, his choice of words was, too.

With a pang of guilt John realised that also, his friend seemed to be more human – a bit more like the average person – when high. Feelings had been closer to the surface and less... organised, for a lack of a better word. Maybe also a bit more basic and like run by base human behaviour... all this were not really the right words for what John had received. But Sherlock would have probably not have physically attacked Mycroft if not under the influence.

Also, his facial expressions seemed even more exaggerated and like a mask used for a purpose than usual.

Then Sherlock tensed once more, interrupting his thoughts, and his face contorted in pain.

There was real agony written on his face and true undisguised anguish, it was hard to see him this badly wounded and his mind stripped bare of conscious control.

He stood up and leaned over his friend, once more brushing the sweaty hair away with his hand, then wiping his face with the washcloth.

"It's okay, mate... It's all right now."

 

 


	3. Leinster Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to Leinster Gardens to meet with Sherlock, after the detective vanished from the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

Mrs Hudson held out the phone, and still lost in thoughts John pressed the 'answer' button, "Sherlock, where the hell are you?"

"John?... I…."

"How could you be so darn stupid to leave the bloody hospital like that?! Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

"John, we need to talk about... something," Sherlock's voice was grave and sounded tired.

The doctor's internal alarm raised a notch.

"What is it Sherlock?… Why did you put my armchair back?"

"You're at the flat then? Are you alone?"

"Yes and yes."

"There is a key on the mantelpiece… Found it?"

John stood up and saw a single key lying on the mantelpiece half hidden under the skull, he fetched it.

"Yes. Can you please tell me what's…."

"You need to promise me _not_ to inform _anyone_ where you are going! Not Mrs Hudson, not Lestrade and even more important: not Mary!"

"Jesus, now you really scare me…"

"Promise me not to tell her!"

"I promise," John was wondering why Sherlock was feeding him with little hints instead of bluntly telling him what this was about - like he usually did.

"Yes, I promise!" he repeated when Sherlock remained silent.

"Leinster Gardens, 23-24, third house on the left or so."

"Tell me what this is all about!"

"Fulfilling a vow…. Can you bring some morphine? Though I lowered the dose to a minimum the pump is empty now."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

It was quite obvious Sherlock had needed to stretch the filling of the pump and was also planning something and needed a clear mind… Which meant he was in a lot of pain.

John slipped into his jacket and grabbed his medical bag from the wardrobe.

"I'll try, but I can't promise. I won't do anything illegal! See you in a few."

He hung up and was out the door moments later, heading for his car.

His thoughts continued chasing each other.

All the hints Sherlock had placed so carefully, they were pointing to his relationship with Mary.

No couldn't be… he doesn't want it to be… it... it was too damn ghastly a thought.

He didn't want all of this having _anything_ to do with the woman he loved!

And where the hell was he supposed to he get morphine?

Well, maybe the easiest way was to ask at the hospital, since Sherlock was not officially checked out and he'd do all he could to convince Sherlock to go back there. His chances to survive this without treatment were not good.

This was actually quite stupid, to leave the hospital like that. Definitely one of the dumbest stunt Sherlock had ever pulled!

The doctor on duty indeed gave him a small dose in a syringe after John had convinced him that he was working on getting Sherlock back to the hospital and needed to ease the transport.

 

When he reached the address the detective had told him, he was wondering how he had made it there, he had driving without concentrating on it at all. To his luck there were many empty parking lots.

And how had Sherlock made it here?

The building looked odd but he didn't take his time to inspect it closely.

In a hurry he fumbled with the key to unlock the front door.

The house was even odder on the inside.

At first he thought he was in a hallway but after a few seconds, when he had a glimpse around, he doubted it.

A gangway to the right was filled with an antique red leather chair - it was quite battered - and something that looked like a shabby kitchenette, covered with rubbish and dirty disposable plates.

Other old pieces of furniture and some shelves filled the gangway, looking as if someone had lived here for some time.

Unable to spot Sherlock John returned to the hallway and followed it down. On its end someone had parked a wheelchair and he spotted the IV pole with the bag and the pump attached to it.

Another gangway lead of to the right, and when he looked around the corner he saw a prone figure on an old sofa. More cupboards where in that gangway, filled with lab equipment.

"Sherlock?" he whispered and stepped closer.

The figure didn't move.

"Sherlock?" he asked louder.

He knelt down in front of his wounded friend who now started to move.

Sherlock was lying on his side, wearing his coat and shoes.

"Finally," Sherlock whispered, his voice hoarse.

He opened swollen red eyes, "Did you bring medication?"

John rubbed his face, the gesture showed he was a bit desperate about all this.

"Shit… What is this about?… Believe me, if you kill yourself by evading medical treatment I'll never _ever_ forgive you."

"I won't stay here any longer than necessary," Sherlock groaned.

When he rolled onto his back and then tried to sit up, his face contorted in pain.

"Hang on, hang on!… You need help with this! You'll start bleeding again if you aren't careful… Let me help!"

"'kay," Sherlock whispered, sinking back.

The pain was indeed more than bad now, it had been very uncomfortable for hours due to the reduced dose, but in the past minutes, the pain level was maddening… He was sweating and the short rest had made it even worse.

"Well, I got a small dose of morphine - no chance to get more - but you'll get a new pump filling as soon as we return to the hospital... and bring back their equipment, _undamaged_."

John unpacked the prepared syringes and fetched gloves and hand sanitizer.

While he waited for his hands to dry he looked for Sherlock's hand in search for the IV port, it wasn't there.

"What did you do with all the tubes and wires?"

"I removed the IV from my hand. Central line is stitched in place, just unhooked it, as well as the... you know," he glanced down his body. "But I removed the heart monitor patches."

John winced, aware of how uncomfortable his friend must be with the remaining kinds of catheters.

Sherlock _was_ pale and sweating and didn't move.

The doctor reached for his wrist and took his pulse, his other hand went to his cheek to check the temperature.

"God, Sherlock… How could you…"

He was worried and afraid that the other man might refuse to come back to the hospital with him.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and he tolerated the examination without comment.  

Slowly, John unbuttoned his shirt.

The dressing over the surgery wound was clean on the outside, which said not much other than he hadn't torn the outer stitches yet.

The central line was indeed untouched. The fact Sherlock had left the catheters alone were good signs that he planned to accept more treatment, if he planned to _not_ go back to the hospital he would have removed what he could.

"Relax, I'll inject it into the central line…" John warned, then cleaned the uncapped injection port.

Sherlock opened his eyes and searched for the other man's hands.

John held up the syringe so Sherlock could see it.

"Please use only half of it, save the other half for later… I need to be able to concentrate as much as possible."

Slowly, the doctor emptied half of the liquid into the line and then flushed it with saline from the second syringe.

The effect was immediate.

Sherlock closed his eyes and silently blew out air through his mouth in alleviation.

He was dimly aware of the fingers on his neck monitoring his pulse.  He gulped, steeling himself for what needed to happen next.

"John… this is going to be really difficult, so please just listen to what I have to say…"

He felt his friend eye him, dreading what might come next.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked right into John's eyes.

John realized there was hesitation.

Since when was Sherlock so careful?

"Mary was the one who shot me," Sherlock's voice was low and grave.

The words needed six seconds to sink in and John stood up and made a hasty step back.

"What?! Are you out of your mind?"

"No… Mary was…"

"This is absolutely nuts!… You can't be serious!" John's voice was getting louder.

"John, I am sorry, but there is no doubt that it was her."

"You hit your head?"

John was getting agitated now.

"No."

Sherlock decided to let John vent for now and wait for an opportunity to speak.

He slowly raised his upper body into a sitting position, not able to hide a grimace of pain.

"Why the hell would she shoot you?"

"We'll find out soon."

Sherlock decided to better not throw any theories at him right now.

"Why would she even _be_ there?"

"I am sure Magnussen was doing what he always does: he blackmailed her."

"Even if he did, why would she go there then and shoot _you_?… This is insane, Sherlock. Do you know what you're saying?" John's voice continued to rise.

"I know exactly what I'm saying, I fear."

Did John hear sorrow in Sherlock's voice?

"NO!…"

John was obviously torn between trusting Sherlock and his wife.

"No!… NonoNO!"

"Calm down, John."

"Calm down?… Calm. Down?!… You just told me you think my wife was trying to kill you and you want me to fucking calm down?" he was yelling now.

"Er…. That's not what I actually think. In fact, I think she was trying to save us both."

"What?… This is getting better and better. You just said she shot you and now you're saying the opposite? Can you even remember what you said a minute ago?" John was furious.

"Semantics."

"That's it… We'll go back to the hospital right now! Are you having a fever?"

John stepped closer again, a worried look temporarily replacing the disbelief and the anger. He rested the back of his hand against Sherlock's skin to check the temperature.

Defensive mechanism, unbelief and evasion, Sherlock concluded and endured the touch.

"I am not out of my mind, and we cannot go back to the hospital, we need to prepare."

"What?… What for?"

John seemed to get nearer a violent tantrum by the minute.

"Look, she'll be here within the next thirtyfour minutes," Sherlock gently informed. "Maybe you'll believe it when you hear it from her mouth."

"Not happening. I won't hear it because it is not true."

"John, do you really think I'd make up something like this?"

"No, but I think even a genius like you could be mistaken or mislead."

"I am sorry, John," Sherlock felt his own voice shake slightly with the memory of how caught off guard he had been when he realised it was Mary and not Lady Smallwood standing in front of him with a weapon.

It had thrown him for a loop temporarily, he had been in fact so surprised he had stuttered and his blood pressure had dropped noticeable. He suspected John felt similar right now, but contrary to Sherlock the unmistakable proof was not in front of him right now.

It would be a very hard hour that was ahead of them and Sherlock was - when he was honest with himself - anxious to do something that would not soften but harden John's fall.

He needed to take all protective measures to prevent that from happening!

"You don't need to believe me right now. Just help me prepare the scene, I need a dummy in that wheelchair in case anyone shoots at 'me' again."

"You think she'll shoot you _again_?" John laughed and it sounded hysterical.

"No, not really. But I want to make sure that _if_ anyone shoots what might be me it isn't… there's an old mannequin bust in the back, go and get it."

"Right. I only do this because this will prove she did _not_ do it!" John argued.

With great care, Sherlock swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and buried his face in his hands, trying to hide his pain and dizziness.

When he finally dared to look up to John, he pressed his lips into a thin line in frustration.

He didn't know what it was, but something made John put a halt on his tirade. He stared at Sherlock, not moving, just standing there.

"Oh god. You're… really sure… about this, aren't you?"

John's shoulders slumped with the insight and he blinked several times. Sherlock could feel the other man's pain flow through the small space, he didn't want to add to that.

For the first time in his life the truth had a feeling attached to it… He felt like not wanting to say it… and he didn't want to say it because he feared it might hurt John.

This made him more uneasy than he had anticipated.

He had actually thought about what words he should use to try to explain the situation - that alone was already unusual.

Normally he didn't plan how to phrase things, he just said what he thought…

But this time, while waiting for John, he had tried to choose the correct words.

Kind words might minimize the bad impact.

But there was no kind way to tell somebody his wife was a killer.

Well, he had learned to use speech more tactful since he knew John, but not to this extend.

It worked more like: he wanted to say something and while talking an orange warning light started blinking in case he was heading towards something John had marked as insensible in the past.

Now he just nodded, it was no use… as hard as it was, they had to go through this, work on this, find a solution… his vow.

Were his emotions and sensations all chaotic and distended and hypersensitive because of the meds he was taking?

"I'm sorry," he whispered, feeling shaken by the strong current of distress, John's and his' alike.

When he was younger he had often wondered what the meaning of the verb 'to commiserate' was… and had stored it as 'something people said' - a polite phrase… But now he grasped, with all his senses, what it means to feel another person's misery.

John had tears in his eyes, he stood there like a statue. Overwhelmed, disoriented by the blow of the news… and obviously fighting not to let them fall. His face a rigid mask, it reminded Sherlock of another moment John had shown that face, when he realised Sherlock was standing in front of him in that restaurant he so insensitively chose to confront him with the fact that he was still alive.

Top priority right now: protect John from any more pain.

How could he manage that?

Was that even possible?

Laboriously, he stood up. At least stand close if he couldn't offer any other comfort.

"No. This must be a mistake… I love her, this can't be…" John maundered, evading his look.

"John, she loves you, too. I am alive, I think, ... because she loves you."

"This is making no sense! What do you know about love?"

"At least to recognise it when it is present… Let's not jump to conclusions now, we need to prepare for her arrival. I'll try to gently confront her to find out her motives."

"Gently? Really? How do you plan to do that? You don't even know the meaning of what you just said," yelling again.

"John… it is essential you let me do this… and do _not_ interfere!… You need to promise me that you won't disrupt my dialogue with her."

"Why?… You want me to listen from a hiding-place?"

"Yes."

"You can't be serious…."

"This is a very delicate thing… and to keep your emotions, love, and your marriage safe you need to let me do it my way."

"If she really shot you, you still want to protect our feelings for each other?... This is insane."

"You are repeating yourself, John. We need… to prepare. Can you… fetch the dummy?"

It was much more work to stand upright in his condition and the effort made him breathe a lot heavier than before.

"Alright, then. I will sit in the chair," John whispered.

"What?… No!"

"Why not?… You do such stuff all the time."

"It might be dangerous in case I need to provoke her."

"She will not shoot… She would never hurt anything… I'm sure this is a mistake…"

"John..." Sherlock stepped closer and John was forced to raise his eyes by the unexpected proximity.

He looked into Sherlock's eyes and gulped.

"What if…" Sherlock started.

"When she shoots me thinking it is you… than… that's okay… I can't lose you a second time and I doubt I would survive her killing you... in the long term anyway. So where is the use in hiding?" his voice was hard now.

The meaning of the words hit Sherlock like a punch in the face.

"I cannot…" he started, wondering if it had been a good idea to let John be present for this, he had decided to do it because he doubted he'd believe him if he hadn't heard it from her mouth himself.

It was painful to speak, "I'm not sure I would either…"

"Would either what?"

"We need to move, she's probably on her way," he evaded to answer.

 

Fifteen minutes later Billy had arrived and was busy installing a projector somewhere. John had hid his car and helped Sherlock to create the stage.

They were busy testing the light environment that would make it impossible to see who was sitting in the wheelchair from the entrance.

While testing the lights Sherlock's phone received a text, from Anderson by the sound of the alert.

"She is on her way. Anderson told her where I am," he reported after reading the text.

He texted Billy to get into position.

John also took his mobile, staring at it, waiting for her to call or text him to inform him she knew where Sherlock was. He stared at it for quite some time, sure it would buzz every moment.

"John, she won't tell you she knows where I am… Can you… administer the other half of the morphine now?"

Sherlock sat down in the wheelchair, it was the nearest seat and he needed to sit for a moment.

The doctor went and fetched his bag like in trance.

Sherlock's expression softened when the pain ebbed away after the second injection. He took some deeper breaths and stood up.

"Sit down, I want to see how it looks," he demanded.

John stored the syringes and his bag out of sight and sat in the wheelchair.

The detective slowly headed for the door to take a look at the scene. He returned to John's side after inspecting the lights carefully.

"Put your feet in the footrest… Something isn't right… you look like… you," Sherlock reached for the collar of John's jacket and flipped it upright.

"Sit relaxed so you don't need to move because it's tiring."

"Seriously? How am I supposed to relax in a situation like this?"

"Your hair is not right," Sherlock scuffled his hands though his friend's hair for several seconds like he used to do it with his own, creating a mess.

He liked to do it because he didn't like the feeling when his hair attached too much to his skull after a while, or when it had been bent in one direction too long and needed to unwind… or his mind needed to unwind… whatever.

"Sherlock!" John complained about the unexpectedness of the touch.

"Sorry, you needed to relax, so I thought… this helps me unwind so it might…" Sherlock wondered if the touch had been inappropriate, "Looks more like me, now."

Another text alert could be heard from Sherlock's pocket.

"That's Billy, he must have spotted her. Three minutes at most… Ready?"

"No…" John sounded lost.

Sherlock leaned down to him, placing his hands on the armrests of the chair, invading his private space once more.

"He'll give her a headset and I'll talk to her. Don't speak and don't move!… Unless I signal you to do so." He looked into John's eyes waiting for confirmation.

Their gazes locked for a long moment and finally John nodded stiffly.

Sherlock retreated.

"Okay," he vanished into the dark hallway that diverged next to the entrance and they waited for her to switch on the headset.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave some feedback.


	4. 221b - Collapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock collapses at 221b.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

**John's POV**

"Average arrival time for a London ambulance is…" Sherlock looked at his watch.

Medics rushed into the room. "Did somebody call an ambulance?"

"…eight minutes," Sherlock finished his sentence.

Their sudden appearance made John stand up and left him disoriented for a few seconds.

"Did you bring any morphine?… I asked on the phone…"

A bit stunned, the doctor gazed at Sherlock checking his own pulse.

He must have called them then… and he must be really bad if he actually called an ambulance himself, John realised.

"We were told there was a shooting," the first paramedic said.

"There was, last week… But I believe I'm bleeding internally, my pulse is very erratic… You may need to restart my heart."

He tried to stand up but lost his balance immediately. John and Mary reached for him simultaneously and caught him.

"Sherlock…"

"John? "

With a firm and desperate grip Sherlock held onto his friend's shoulder while the medics were busy holding him upright.

"John… Magnussen is all that matters, now…" his breathing was laboured and his face was covered with a sheen of sweat. "You can trust Mary… She saved my life…"

John felt Sherlock trembling.

"She shot you."

"Ehm, mixed messages, I know… eh…" Sherlock's face contorted in pain as he sagged backwards, no longer able to hold himself upright.

He moaned in pain.

John and the ambulance crew guided his body backwards towards the floor.

When Sherlock's hands reached out in John's direction it made the doctor's chest hurt to see him collapsing, fighting the pain.

"Sherlock?…  Alright… Take him…"

They laid him flat on the ground and one of the medics unwrapped an oxygen mask.

The detective was panting and the sounds of distress he made caused John to stand frozen in shock. He had never heard and seen Sherlock in such agony.

The fact that he couldn't mask it was a sign of how bad he really was.

In fact, Sherlock had been breathing heavily for some time now, he had heard it, but he hadn't listenend… He had been too much occupied with his own crisis and thoughts, had repeatedly thought 'We'll deal with that in a minute, as soon as we have sorted this out'.

But then another _this_ arose and he had pushed the thought to bring Sherlock back to the hospital back into the background again, and then another thing made it been delayed again.

And now he hadn't taken care of Sherlock's physical issues for over two hours.

Sherlock had put all his body's needs away to save John's and Mary's love and now his life was in danger because of that.

It had been obvious Sherlock was in severe pain for some long hours and John had ignored it!

Not only just ignored it, he had even threatened to punch him, although Sherlock had looked like about to collapse and even _said_ he needed some painkillers and that was abnormal already.

John had chosen to ignor Sherlock's desperation and distress and… his friend had shown clear signs of barely being able to stand, but John hadn't cared.

Right now Sherlock was either in so much pain or too much out of it to resist the medic pulling the mask over his face.

Still stunned, John stood there, trying to grasp what had happened in the past few minutes.

Sherlock's collapse in front of everybody threw him for a loop. He had been so focussed on his own shock - about Mary and his frustration - that he had ignored Sherlock's needs at all, great doctor he was… and a great friend, too!

Allowing other people to see his weakness and pain meant Sherlock must be in a really bad state.

One of the medics attached an oximeter to Sherlock's lax fingers and the detective moaned again.

Although John was usually able to react fast and efficient it wasn't happening right now. A soldier and emergency doctor in battle needed that ability, but right now he was… slow…

Things happened in slow-motion around him.

He felt lost and overrun.

He had deserted his best friend who was suffering for him and his relationship.

The whole thing was such a mess, no matter from which angle one might look.

Finally, another sharp sound of Sherlock's pain brought him back to reality. John knelt down beside the smaller medic.

Doctor routine kicked in.

"He left the hospital AMA a few hours ago, he's got a central line and there's a foley still there," he informed them.

The medic reached for the wounded man's shirt to open it and Sherlock's hand flailed through the air, his hardship growing.

"Its okay… I'm his doctor… He's not good with being touched, let me do this… Sherlock? You are with me?"

John opened Sherlock's shirt and held out his hand for the patches of the heart-monitor the bold paramedic was already unwrapping.

"He needs something for the pain. He unhooked his morphine pump hours ago and is now in severe pain. Did you bring some?" John asked the man.

"We can't administer it without permission."

"I give you permission," John fetched his wallet and showed them his license, then put on gloves. The heart monitor was connected and started to beep fast.

"Now!" John fetched a penlight from the bag and gently lifted Sherlock's eyelids to check his pupils, which made Sherlock grunt in protest.

"We need a trolley," the bold medic had turned away and spoke into his radio.

"No…" Sherlock huffed into the mask, he was obviously still aware, though his eyes were closed.

"Don't be ridiculous, mate. You can't walk down to the ambulance. What about the morphine?" he addressed the medic now, who was busy with a vial and a syringe.

"Bit more, won't knock him out but ease the pain," John commented when the man stopped filling the syringe.

The medics stared at him, John was aware the dose would knock a normal person out within seconds, but wouldn't do the same for Sherlock. He had seen him on that dose before and had been hardly able to notice he was on the drug at all. Most of his former patients had been babbling after receiving a similar dose.

After the past hours and the amount of pain he was probably in he deserved adequate pain management. He knew what it felt like to experience a gunshot wound and no one should feel a pain this bad for longer than absolutely necessary.

"I am his doctor," John simply explained and cleaned the port once more.

When the medic held out the filled syringe, John took it, rechecked it for bubbles and connected it to the injection port.

Then he started very slowly pushing the medication in, with the skill of having done that a thousand times.

While doing that he watched the display of the heart monitor.

Sherlock lifted an uncoordinated shaking hand and it came to rest mid air against the socket of John's armchair, which was limiting his movement.

John slowly continued to push and watched him blinking, his eyes half open now, the effect of the drug kicking in fast.

John realised his friend had brought the bulky chair back in as an offer, he understood now. Sherlock wanted to let him know that he was always welcome at 221b and that he had a home here in case he wanted to.

When the dose was half in, John understood that what Sherlock had done in the past days. It kind of  materialised more and more clearly in front his inner eye and it was… unselfish and… self-sacrificing.

His friend had done a lot of those things in the past months.

Was he still kind of feeling guilty for the pain his faked death had caused?

Was he doing this out of remorse or out of… a bond of brotherly love?

John was aware this was more than just friendship… and it caused a lump in his throat when he remembered that weeks ago Sherlock hadn't even dared to think of himself as John's best friend.

John bit his lower lip to keep his own emotions bottled up when he felt tears rising in his eyes.

He needed to focus on the task at hand!

He watched the jumping lines on the monitor again and checked how much was left in the syringe,

gently continuing to push he watched his friend's face.

Sherlock blinked once more, his eyes were slowly glazing over.

"Shh… You'll be fine, Sherlock… Relax… no signs for serious heart problems."

He freed one of his hands and took Sherlock's other hand and gently squeezed it. Sherlock's heartbeat slowed down another notch, he exhaled loud when the pain ebbed.

"You'll be fine," John stated again, not only to soothe Sherlock, but himself, too.

Then suddenly, with another deep exhale, Sherlock's hand went limb in his and his eyes rolled back, his body relaxed into induced sleep.

John cursed and let go of the syringe, he then tilted Sherlock's lax head back to ease his breathing. Sherlock must have been really on the end of his tether and eager to escape the pain going under this fast.

The doctor disconnected the injection, some of the medication still left in the barrel.

Another pair of medics came in and they loaded Sherlock onto the gurney they had brought, wrapped him in a blanket and buckled him in.

John felt a slight panic rise when he remembered the last two times he had witnessed this. He realised he was in a light shock himself and fetched his jacket.

God, he was cold.

Mary was still standing there - she had stood there the whole time, not moving, not saying anything.

He inhaled to say something but then didn't know what to it was he could say.

She just stood there, watching him, her eyes were sad and afraid.

When the medics started to carry Sherlock downstairs he followed them.

"John…" Mary found her ability to talk.

"Go home. I won't come home any time soon… and stay the hell away from him!" his voice was grumpy and he didn't look at her.

His life was a mess.

He had failed to protect his friend in the past hours and he needed to care for him now, everything else was not important, he didn't care what she did for now.

He hurried into the ambulance and seconds later it sped off.

 


	5. The hospital again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up after being hospitalised again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

A monotone clicking sound woke him. Deja vue…. Orange light entered his mind, this time someone had mercifully not switched on the fan.

He blinked.

Back in hospital…

He vaguely remembered arriving at the A&E.

A low beeping sound was present, someone had turned the volume down to a minimum. Probably John.

Where was he? Was Mary here?

He was dizzy and disoriented. They must have operated on him again, it felt exactly like last time. Though he didn't remember Post-OP… yet.

"Sherlock?" John's voice. "You're okay. Rest."

After what felt like ages he finally managed to open his eyes. John was standing next to the bed, leaning into his line of sight. Sherlock frowned.

"Do not ask for Mary, would you?" John pleaded.

Sherlock tried to focus on John's face, he blinked several times.

Was that meant as a joke?

"Y…You're… 'kay?" Sherlock managed and his dry throat rebelled.

"You're asking me that, mate, really?" John raised his eyebrows. "What exactly happened to you the past two years to make you change that much?" John leaned a bit closer.

"You…." Sherlock pressed out, licking his lips.

"Yes?"

John obviously waited for an explanation.

"No… _You_."

"Me?… I wasn't even there."

"'xacly," Sherlock tried to gulp.

"God, I'm a lousy nurse… You want some water?" John offered him a straw and he took some careful sips.

"Thanks."

"Shit, I'm so sorry. I should have-- I was a lousy friend… You were in pain and I… I was a dick. I'm sorry!… I didn't mean to--" it poured out of John, he started pacing the room.

That was the clicking noise, John pacing.

"I am sorry," he repeated.

"John… 'ts alright."

"No, it's not!" John was angry with himself, clearly. "I was only focussed on my pain and I lost sight of yours… even though you pointed it out for once…"

"John…"

"…I'm a lousy friend… and a lousy doctor…"

"Could you…" Sherlock tried to reach for the pump again.

"God, Sherlock, please forgive me… I…"

"Y're m'friend… an' m' doctor…. An' I don'blame you… Coul' you shut up?" Sherlock managed and John stood rooted to the spot, shutting up suddenly and looking at him intensely.

"Wh'ers Mary?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Uh, I told you not to ask for Mary, didn't I…"

"Where's our client?" Sherlock rephrased.

"I don't know - and for the moment, to be honest - I don't care."

Right now, John was far more action than Sherlock felt he was able to handle.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again the light had changed. He had slipped into sleep unintentionally.

John was napping in a chair next to the bed. The pump was set on a medium flow rate and he decided it would be okay to sleep a bit more.

 

Noises woke him.

A nurse was bringing fresh water and tea and it had woken John, too.

"How am I supposed to heal if they keep disturbing my rest?" Sherlock mumbled with closed eyes.

"Yeah. Don't ask me, that is one detail of hospitals I never understood myself," John answered and smiled at the nurse. In good humour, she smiled back.

"There's not even coffee!" Sherlock complained weakly while John lifted the head of the bed a bit. Sherlock reacted with a painful frown on his face to being moved.

"How 'm I supposed to get better if the food makes me worse?"

John chuckled, "The absence of coffee makes you worse?"

"When can I go home?"

"You don't really think they will let you out of here soon after the stunt you pulled?… If I hadn't interfered they'd probably have chained you to the bed. I will make sure you stay at least until it is safe to get up," John joked.

Sherlock threw him a doubting look, he was acting well, John realised, but his eyes were not really focussed and he assumed his friend was in a fog of pain and drugs, hiding it as good as ever.

"Okay, joking aside… you caused internal bleeding and they had to operate on you again, what do you expect after that kind of behaviour?… You made it perfectly clear that you're not able to take care of yourself."

"Well, I was busy taking care of you and your marriage," Sherlock replied.

"I know, but…."

"But what?"

"Do you realise that your life is more important to me than my marriage?"

"I… What?… You said marrying her was the most important day of your life…" Sherlock slurred.

"Right, yes. I did… but this does _not_ mean the marriage is more important than you."

"I don't understand."

"I know… Just store that information somewhere on your hard drive... Can I stay at 221b with you for a bit? I need some time to think." John asked carefully, then winced, he should have waited until Sherlock was awake enough to really understand.

"I thought I made it clear that you're always welcome at Baker Street... You don't have to ask, it is your home," Sherlock informed in a low voice.

His eyes closed again and speaking was obviously difficult.

"I know you did, but… I was not a good friend lately."

"You already have been a good friend... enough in the past to last for a lifetime." Sherlock's voice was sounding logical and analysing though the meaning was warmer than John felt he deserved.

"I'd be delighted... to have you as a temporary flatmate again."

"Oi, what makes you think I will…. I will return to her?"

"Eh….I … I don't know," Sherlock gulped, "When will the canteen open?"

"Sherlock, you will not leave the room… you will not even get up for the next three days!"

"God… Make Mrs Hudson bring some coffee... or at least decent tea," Sherlock managed to sound unnerved, although John had problems to understand him at all due to his mumbling and slurring of the words.

"You really think that after yelling at her, letting her know that she is useless, she will do that?"

"Yes."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was probably right, she would forgive him.

"I expect you to apologise," John informed him.

"I will," Sherlock's voice thinned.

John raised his eyebrows… and then saw Sherlock had drifted off again. It was typically Sherlock to be this alert this shortly after surgery and with this much medication in his system. Everybody else would have drifted off after one or two sentences, exhausted and unnerved.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism needed!  
> I know I haven't finished this, there will be more scenes later, but never the less I started writing a second part for S4.  
> It's calles Pain Management 2, missing scenes of emotional and physical agony and distress.   
> I decided to publish now because this chapter was quite short and also because something in me needs to deal with the new season.


	6. 221b again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes home to 221B for the first time after Sherlock's collapse in the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

Thirty nine hours after Sherlock's collapse at the flat John went 'home' for the first time. Since Sherlock was finally resting John gave in to the fact that he needed a break from all of it.

A few hours earlier an unnerved and pain ridden Sherlock had 'convinced' him to go home for the night, take a shower and get some sleep.

Reluctant to go, the doctor had waited until Sherlock was asleep and then needed another two hours get himself up to leave.

Maybe he had tried to avoid having to go to Mary's and his flat to get some stuff. But after he had finally decided all he needed for the moment was already at Baker Street, he headed right back.

When he entered the living room it was still in a kind of disarranged state. The armchairs were in odd angles and there were wrappings lying around from when the ambulance crew had unpacked equipment.

The medical litter made the events come back to him more clearly than he wanted.

Still in his jacket, he heavily sat down on the sofa.

How had Sherlock been able to stand or at least sit and do his thing in a state like that?

His recovery would take some time, months at least, if all went well.

God, he needed Sherlock to fully recover… not only for Sherlock's sake, but for his own as well.

It was not yet clear if there'd be any kind of permanent damage. It had not been when Sherlock had made it through the first surgery, but after the second it was even more a possibility.

John felt his desperation bloom into a light panic when he thought about how his marriage and the whole situation might have contributed to Sherlock's health damage.

How could he not have seen this coming?

The memory stick was in his pocket, it felt like a contaminant in the flat.

Right now he was unable to think about the data it might contain.

He stood up and pulled the small device out, not able to endure to have it on his person for for another minute.

Sherlock's laptop was on the dining table and for a short moment he considered switching it on and reading the documents.

No. He couldn't… not yet.

There was chaos on the living room table and he threw the stick on top of a pile of magazines and books, that had been there for ages. Then he stood kind of lost in the middle of the room. 

The small octagon table he had knocked over in frustration last night was still lying next to the window.

He was tired, but to wired up to make a decision what to do next. He knew he should try to eat something but he couldn't, not now. He also knew he should try to get some sleep, but that was impossible right now, too.

This was not the first time he was alone in the flat since Sherlock had come back from the dead, but the emptiness felt heavy. The air felt leaden and he felt lost... almost as lost and damaged as he had after Sherlock's death.

His world had just collapsed - again.

Sherlock would survive this!

… and he would help him in every way he could.

The recovering patient would need assistance for quite some time after being released from the hospital.

The silence of the room gained momentum and became almost painful.

No, it was the agony in his soul that tormented him.

He needed to do something - not matter what, just a distraction from it all for a bit… tidying was usually a good way to work the piled up emotions away, it included physical movement, keeping up focus and was not too hard on concentration.

Light workout for body and soul… and another positive effect: sorting through stuff helped somehow to get feelings straight, too… and the flat would be neater after it.

He headed for the stairs and went up to his bedroom.

Since Sherlock's return, he and Mary had slept in his old room several times and her presence in the room was obvious.

It made him sick now to be aware of it… He fetched the bin from the door and dumped everything that was hers into it.

Within the next fifteen minutes he cleaned the night table from her presence, then the dresser and the closet.

Clothes, hand lotion, woollen socks, candy - pens all went into the trash.

When he realised he could even smell her perfume in the room he threw open the window and stripped the bed.

The linens flew down the stairs and he bit his lips when he remembered it was almost 22:30 hours and that Mrs Hudson might be asleep already.

The room still looked different from back when he had lived here, so he started putting the furniture and other items back to the positions they had been in back then - as silent as possible.

He even went back to the living room several times to fetch things that used to be in his room but had made their way down into the living room or the kitchen over the time.

Over an hour later he returned to the living room to restore it to it's former state.

The first thing he did was realigning the armchairs but then started merely running up and down the room, needing to work off some of his nervous energy.

How could he have been so blind not to see what Mary was?

Sherlock was right, the signs had been there.

In agitation his fists opened and closed several times before he realised he was doing it.

Had he been so frantically looking for love and an end of his personal emptiness after Sherlock's death that he had not wanted to see those signs on her?

Had his need for harmony and companionship made him blind for the clues lying under her surface?

Had he really subconsciously chosen her because she was what she was?

That was what they both have said, hadn't they?

Anger started to mix with the sorrow of loss, frustration about himself and them seeing it when he didn't.

Had Mary even consciously used that?

Did she know who he was before they met?

Did she 'arrange' their relationship?

Or did she just met him, liked him, and had taken her chance?

She had looked ashamed and afraid when they left with the ambulance, though not in a broken way, more in a _'Yes, I did that and I am not proud of it, but I can't change it'_ -way.

She was tough, he had known that all along.

Until yesterday he had thought he knew her, but now it turned out he didn't.

He was an idiot.

But she had said she would do everything to protect him, hadn't she?

Had his deducing abilities died when Sherlock jumped off that roof?

No, but maybe he had kind of shut them down back then - at least partially – because it was all too much, he remembered that.

It had been too painful to do what they used to do together all on his own.

He was a lousy doctor not to have seen how badly Sherlock had needed medical attention and painkillers.

No, he had seen it but he had ignored it, which was even far worse.

Sherlock could have died from their combined ignorance of his body's needs.

Dammit!

John paused his nervous walking up and down the room, stared at the fireplace.

He knew Sherlock loved dramatic case solving... he should've stopped him… but to be honest, he would've needed to knock Sherlock out to make him get medical attention. Sherlock wouldn't have listened, no matter how much he would have tried to convince him.

It had been necessary to knock Sherlock out in the hospital twice already, which was not exactly standard procedure, especially since he wasn't Sherlock's official doctor. But Mycroft had given him permission to sedate him in case it was needed and had made the staff accept his decisions, warning them what a difficult patient his brother was and that they'd better listen to him to spare themselves any problems.

So he had made that call, he knew his friend and he knew he would've damaged himself back then if he hadn't interfered.

But before Sherlock's collapse his own distress had prevented to take care of his friend.

So often after Sherlock's fall he had hated himself for not seeing the signs and failing to help Sherlock before it had come to the suicide.

Now, he knew he couldn't have seen them because it had _not_ been a suicide at all.

But with _this_ , he should have seen the signs.

The fact that his friend had called the ambulance himself was quite a surprise… Maybe Sherlock hadn't really been thinking about his health but also about him… John had told him that he wouldn't manage if Sherlock died again, so maybe he hadn't done it out of self-preservation, but for him?

Well, it didn't matter why, the important thing was he had done it at all.

It was a shock to see Sherlock like this, whimpering in pain… he had seen many patients in a state like that, but Sherlock was different. He was so strong on the outside, he _always_ managed to keep his masks up when other people were around. John was the only exception - well, Mrs Hudson sometimes, too - but the mask falling when others were around and the visible weakness had shaken him.

They had managed so many difficult situations, but this was _different_.

John couldn't put a finger on it, but Sherlock had changed so much during his time away… when he was honest with himself he was more afraid for Sherlock than he had been before.

He seemed - John barely dared to think it - he seemed more vulnerable now, somehow out of focus and more reckless with his own health.

Sherlock high had been a first in his presence… and had been more than unsettling.

Was it really possible that the idiot had taken drugs to lure Magnussen into thinking he was an addict?

He could have faked that, for god's sake! The man had faked his own death, why didn't he fake using?

These unknown threats emanating from some lurking darkness were much harder to handle than a suspect shooting at them during a chase.

This was all Magnussen's doing, wasn't it?

Mr Hudson had washed and scrubbed the fireplace for hours, it had been quite a scene.

Her indignant current of curses reminded the former soldier of swearing soldiers in the desert. He had never heard her using words like that before. It reminded him that there was much more under her surface than the polite landlady.

John started to run to and fro again.

Magnussen had besmirched her house and her consulting detective. She had taken it personally - and she had made a fuss around Sherlock, as if the man had hurt Sherlock in some way.

The detective himself had ignored the whole thing, not a single word about it.

The flat had smelled of disinfectant and cleaning agents for days… but that was preferable to the smell of urine.

When John passed the table once more he spotted Mary's favourite mug, still half full next to Sherlock's laptop.

Out of reflex, he reached for it to take it away but then, with a grunt of frustration, he threw it at the wall.

It impacted a foot left from the smiley. Spilled tea and shards ran down the wall and the lampshade in front of it.

Fuming, he stared at the wet spot for almost a minute… and then cursed.

He followed the mugs path to make sure the tea hadn't entered the multiple socket-outlet, but turned away immediately when saw the liquid was nowhere near the thing, he returned to running up and down the room.

The flat was a bit of a mess, his life was a total mess…

God, Sherlock was also a mess and it would get really straining as soon as his pain would get manageable… weaning him of the morphine…

He stepped on some plastic.

When he knelt down and reached for the sterile wrapping of the cannula dressing he felt the wall that kept his emotions at bay start to crumple.

The fear to lose Sherlock…

The shock about who Mary had been...

And also the sorrow about how everything had turned out flooded him with desperation.

He stared at the wrapping, the wave of emotions crushed over him and he pressed his right  hand over his mouth to mute the silent hick-ups of his agony and guilt.

Then his gaze moved to the carped, just to look no longer at the plastic.

A memory sprang into his mind… shortly after Sherlock's funeral, he had fallen onto this carpet, having an almost violent meltdown.

The remembered feelings were the last straw, his body started shaking uncontrollably. The recollection of pain over Sherlock's loss mixed with the threat of losing Mary.

He would not kneel here on the same spot and cry again.

With a great amount of willpower he made it to his feet and frantically searched for something else to concentrate on.

At first he headed for the bathroom, wanting to throw some water into his face, but when he crossed the kitchen he stopped.

Something was different.

It took him a moment until he realised that all the minute changes - that had been done in the kitchen after the wedding - had been undone.

The coffee was back at its old place, as was the microscope and the sugar and… the kitchen looked like it used to be.

Sherlock's attentiveness once more overwhelmed him, it was so subtle and… also so vast.

He was shaking - no way denying it - with anger, frustration, fear and sorrow… the whole situation was pressing down on him.

He was lost and it was crushing him down.

Before he reached the bathroom, his strength left him and he slid down the wall between the kitchen and the bathroom door.

It was no use trying to fight the distress. He would only head into something worse if it piled up, so he let it go… just let it go, let the emotions run wild and get out…

He surrendered and moments later he was a sobbing mess.

 

When he finally managed to raise to his feet in the middle of the night he was aware that he didn't want to sleep in the room he had slept in with Mary, instead he headed for the couch.

His mobile was on the coffee table in front of the sofa, he had placed it there before going up to his room.

It blinked, informing him about a new message.  
_'Just text or call if you need anything._ _I know you are at 221b. Whatever you need, don't hesitate. Greg'_

He leaned back on the sofa, utterly spend and exhausted.

Was it worth to look for a blanket?

It was summer but he was shivering.

Emotional stress, he diagnosed and sat up again, reaching for the blanket and spreading it over his legs.

He let his head sink towards the arm-rest, but before he was able to relax, his mobile beeped once more and he reached for it.

His vision was so blurred, he was barely able to read the screen.

' _thx_ '

Was the only thing in the message, he looked at the sender, it said, _SH_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why Sherlock send that message will be revealed later.


	7. A Long Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is in severe pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not mine, as usual.
> 
> This scene takes place while John is at 221b again, which means simultaneously to the last chapter. So this is the same time, just from Sherlock's POV.

 

 

**The Hospital Room**

Sherlock was ripped out of a doze by the pain.

The corridors had calmed down during the last few hours and he had send John home - to Baker Street.

A few hours ago John had asked him if he could stay there for a while, that question had brought Sherlock out of his drug induced stupor more than he had liked, and the fact that John _was_ returning to 221 b… and also the fact that he sought distance from Mary.

Sherlock hurt.

Vividly, he was reminded that he had gone through the pains of risking his own life to show John that he should stick to Mary only hours ago and right now that was in jeopardy.

The pain had risen to a level that tempted him to use the pump again; it was getting more and more intense by the minute.

Unfortunately, it was not the kind of pain that was stimulating.

It was the kind that caused nausea due to its intensity and that obfuscated the mind… and that became really ugly soon.

The kind of pain that sooner or later made one wish to end it all, even if that meant more drastic measures.

He had been there before, during his hunt, had experienced pain that went beyond his endurance, met his personal limits. Experienced moments of true and real desperation.

He had of course considered it possible that hunting down Moriarty's net would be an intense experience, but in hindsight he had to admit it went much further than he had deemed possible.

The torture had introduced a level of pain and anguish to him that had surmounted any expectations.

He knew before how it felt to _want_ to die, but it was a very unsettling thing to experience it like that.

The temptation to let go, to just be done with all the pains of existence.

Of course he had known there was an amount of pain that just destroyed any will to live, in bad cases even made people go insane or die because of its intensity.

Being shot was bad, but it was different than he had expected.

It really hurt.

But the knowledge that he had access to painkillers and that there was a chance to get better over time, that every day it would lessen was something oddly reassuring…  and something that changed all the facts.

The dark red tinge of desperation was missing although the pain caused the same mental discomfort he had experienced while he sojourned in the dungeon.

Ah, yes, it was a trigger to intense emotion this physical reminder.

And then there was the pain memory.

Nevertheless, this pain had a location, and for now it was intensifying and he was nearing the point where he'd manipulate that button again, switch on the pain killers.

Was this addiction?

The knowledge to have that option was making it a whole lot better to endure.

He wondered if he'd be far worse if the pump wasn't there, just because of the absence of the option.

Pain was an odd thing.

When it became really bad it killed the will to live fast.

It had been devastating to stand on that edge and be in that kind of pain, experience that particular cliff of existence.

John was right, being there changed people - had changed him.

Suddenly there was a reason, a reason to get up and fight, a reason to not-surrender.

In his youth, when he had deliberately overdosed because there was no reason to go on with the agony life was, he had never understood why people stayed, now he did.

He had stayed for John.

The pains he had gone through for John…

It was odd.

He had never thought it was even possible to choose the ordeal of existence for anything. Nothing had been this important.

It had been a whole new world to explore, to decide to endure everything just for this one human being.

The pains he had endured…

The Fall.

The time away.

The pains of John's absence during his hunt.

The horror of doing everything to return and then find out everything had changed.

The pains of going through organising a wedding.

The obstacles of trying to convince himself that it was a 'new chapter'.

Serviettes, Beth, being insecure about social necessities.

Of the many things he had thought would be a part of his life, organising a wedding had never been one of those, especially not for another person.

The agony of writing a best man's speech, which had occupied his mind for weeks, caused awkward situations and kind of confronted him with things he never wanted to think about.

The torment of actually enduring the day of the wedding: the people, the speech, Sholto, his personal aftermath of it.

The inconvenience of Janine at 221b, her perfume, her normality, her female needs - for a case that turned out to be not just a case.

He had tried to evade the ordeal of it all and concentrated on the case, had used drugs to get closer to his target, only to learn it was all connected.

The pains of his worst nightmare entering his home, his safe haven - and piss into the fire place.

Well this one he had thought wasn't related, but it was now, wasn't it?

His current pains, all for John. All for his well-being.

He had stayed for John and now there was no longer a reason to stay.

He was rendered redundant.

He had never expected anything could hurt this much, had never deemed it possible that a mental pain existed that was level with the physical inconvenience of being shot or tortured.

Now he knew better.

He had to make a decision.

And now he had to face the pains of protecting a relationship he wasn't even part off.

It hurt.

Far worse than anything had before.

And he was alone with the torment it caused.

Mary had wanted him not to tell John, he had nevertheless and now John was affected so much he was out of order and Sherlock was alone with the mess, vulnerable and drugged.

This had cost so much… and now everything he had been fighting for was in danger.

John's happiness.

At this very moment he doubted he'd be able to convince John to continue his liaison with Mary.

If there was any chance to save their relationship, it would be hard work for him.

He had tried to open John up for trusting Mary, had tried to convince him with his last clear thoughts that John needed to forgive her.

He had known this revelation would hurt his friend the moment he had understood it was _Mary_ in Magnussen's office.

The pain of the knowledge had hurt, though her bullet had hurt more.

Who had had the bad idea to label physical and mental agony both 'pain'?

It was stupid, really.

The sensations were both ugly and difficult and horrible and gut-wrenching, but nothing alike. The sentiment they caused... needing to escape, being unable to function were the same, but the thing itself, different words were needed.

He had known Mary was a liar, but the betrayal had caught him off guard, the sheer extend of bewrayment was unsettling.

If _he_ felt like this, what John must feel right now must be unbearable.

Where _was_ John?

Right, it was almost three in the morning, he had gone home. It was the middle of the night, normal people used to sleep at this hour.

Another wave of intense agony washed over him, and this time he was not able to just let it pass.

For god's sakes, it _hurt_!

He knew his blood pressure was rising, knew his heart beat was speeding up, but the night nurse was busy, he wouldn't care. Sherlock was safe from unnecessary ministrations, had more urgent things to do.

Think!

Caregivers were overworked everywhere nowadays, to his luck.

He wondered how John was doing at home.

What was he doing?

Sound asleep?

He tried to imagine how John looked, sleeping in his bed.

It wasn't enough.

So he tried to reach for his phone to see if John had texted him - and groaned in discomfort. The sound of his own unexpected voice startled him, his transport was annoying.

Maybe he should text John… send him some sort of… greeting.

Wasn't that what best friends did in time of crisis?

Signal support?

And gratitude.

In the end, he had typed about five messages - and deleted them all again.

It had kept his mind of using _that_ button, but now the pain of raising his hands to type was horrendous.

The only thing that remained was:

_'thx, SH'_

When he pressed the send button, he realised he was no use to John like this, unnerved by pain and sleep deprivation.

Only option: recover as fast as possible to solve this.

Therefore he needed to rest.

He heard himself groan once more when he realised that meant _sleep_.

Sleep was awkward.

He would have nightmares, medication like this always brought forward bad dreams.

To delay the decision to try to do it he resumed thinking about _the problem_.

But only for about ten minutes, then the nurse bustled in and checked his vials. Obviously he was not distracted enough and immediately spotted the switched off perfusion pump and then understood that the patient was awake.

Without hesitation he dialled up the dosage to the level it had been before.

Sherlock hissed in frustration.

"Just sleep and let me do my job, it's not _my_ fault, you know," the young man told him.

"I don't want it."

"Your doctor is not here, so we continue as prescribed."

The man pressed more buttons and the machine started to push the substance into his veins.

Why had this happened?

A former addict should _not_ be treated with opiod pain killers, where was the sense in that?

It was stupid really, irresponsible.

There were _so many_ other potent painkillers available, why this?

Sherlock bit back a smart remark about the man's girlfriend and willingly succumbed to the rush of morphine into his system.

He had wanted to keep his head clear for John.

But it was all a bit too much.

All the physical and mental pains he had gone through and now _this_.

There was a lot more ahead of him.

Recovery was always nasty.

Far worse than anyone expected, the ups and downs.

Physical therapy.

The pain.

The weaning off the pain medication.

There was so much more anguish ahead and he felt weary in the face of it.

Weak, unable to resist it.

He should rip out the tube and prevent this, but he was tired and…

He hurt!

The orange light was taken away and hesitatingly he was dragged into sleep.

For John.

 


	8. After Magnussen's visit - Missing scene for the deleted scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens after Magnussen visited Sherlock in the hospital (deleted scene from HLV).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen the scene, this won't make much sense. Search for it (youtube) but be warned, it's creepy and ugly.
> 
> This chapter is what I think happened after the deleted scene, after I saw it for the first time it took exactly twenty minutes until I started typing this.  
> The thing why the scene was kind of unsettling for me was that someone touched Sherlock's hands.  
> A few weeks before I saw the scene for the first time I wrote the two chapters of my other story 'Define vulnerability' that deal with Sherlock's hands (and John inspecting them after suspecting injuries). Those were already hard to write but this one was also quite intense for me.  
> Hands are really important for me and the last thing of another person I'd touch if not asked to. I love to wear gloves, sometimes even cotton ones on the job, I know I am odd, no need to tell me :) Unfortunately there are handshakes in this society… I hate them.  
> So, the scene really touched a nerve and I can absolutely understand that this would freak Sherlock out.
> 
>  
> 
> I tried to figure out where the scene would have belonged if it was in the episode (found nothing online, yet, if you do, tell me).  
> I assume that it was after Mary's visit because that was early in the whole hospital thing and there weren't any flowers. When Janine was there, there were still less flowers and Sherlock was not really out of it any more, when Sherlock escaped there were still less flowers, this kind of makes me assume that the scene takes place when Sherlock is in hospital for the second time after his collapse at the flat. And Magnussen doesn't know Sherlock and John know about Mary and had her tell them her story.  
> I try not to sort the scene into a timeline too much, but if it happens accidentally this is why.

 

 

John had gone to get some decent coffee from the bakery across the street.

He was only doing this because he was sure Sherlock was too much out of it to complain about him drinking decent coffee while Sherlock was not allowed any at all.

When John came back some time later and closed the door Sherlock opened bleary swollen eyes.

"Hi," John smiled down at him.

Before John had time to sit down Sherlock's hand started to twitch, he looked down at it.  When his gaze returned to Sherlock's face he saw his friend was fighting hard to fully open his eyes.

Sensing something was different from when he had left a few minutes earlier John looked over his shoulder at the monitors.

Sherlock's BP was a lot higher than before, and his heart rate was also elevated.

The doctor frowned.

Was Sherlock getting agitated again?

That had happened too often since Sherlock first woke up right after the surgery for John's liking.

Sherlock was either out or his wheels were spinning too fast. They had him quite dosed up since he had escaped before, at least to their standards, but John suspected Sherlock was in more pain and more aware than the hospital staff expected.

Maybe he was unsettled because of the painkilling effect only being moderate?

The doctor kept silent for a minute, hoping Sherlock would calm down again.

Should he call for some more sedation?

But instead of calming down Sherlock's breathing – which had been already a bit fast for the doctor's liking – sped up even more.

John put the coffee on the bedside table and inspected the dropping rate of the infusion, the perfusor pump was gone, maybe because the staff feared Sherlock would nick that one, too. Or maybe because the drip was out of his reach so he couldn't manipulate it. John tried to make a mental note to bring it back from Leinster Gardens.

He leaned over his friend, who was now getting more and more restless.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

The other man blinked rapidly in slow motion before he finally managed to keep his eyes half open.

"How's the pain?" John leaned into Sherlock's line of sight, his hands on the edge of the bed.

The detective minutely shook his head.

"What is it, then?"

"Mag'ssn…" Sherlock managed, kind of out of it, still, but clearly agitated.

Sherlock's hand twitched repeatedly.

"Wa…"

"What about him?" John asked.

"Wash…"

"What?"

"Wash… hand," Sherlock moaned.

"Sorry? You want to know if I washed my hands?"

Sherlock shook his head, eyes now closed again.

"Mate, are you dreaming? Can you hear me at all?"

A minute nod, Sherlock's eyes arduously reopened.

"Wash ma… hand, please… 'nd fface."

"What?" John didn't understand.

Sherlock must be babbling. He'd never ever ask John to wash him in _any_ state of mind. He had been cleaned and taken care of by the nurses earlier.

"Magn'ssn… hand…" Sherlock slurred with a slight unnerved undertone, his eyes opened wide in sudden agitation.

John's gaze wandered down to Sherlock's right hand once more, it was resting on the bed, finger in the pulse oximeter. The doctor sat down and took the hand to check if there was something wrong with it.

But to his surprise Sherlock jerked it away the moment he touched his wrist; the movement was uncoordinated and Sherlock inhaled sharply from the pain the movements caused.

Was his hand hurting?

John read the monitors again, now taking care to register every little number so find out what the problem might be.

But this looked more like… panic?

"Hey, hey… it's okay…"

Sherlock was sensible to touch, especially his hands were. He tried to prevent anyone from touching them as often as possible, John knew that. But usually John was allowed to touch him.

Then John saw that Sherlock raised his left one from the other side of the bed.

Maybe that was the hand with the problem?

John rounded the bed.

The room was definitely crowded with too many flowers lately! It was starting to feel tight with all the bouquets Sherlock probably didn't even care about. John had to maneuver around them.

How was the staff doing this?

It also was quite alarming that Sherlock tolerated the smell and the colours, or maybe he was just in too much pain and too much out of it to care.

Anyway, the room had more similarity with a bloody flower shop than a hospital room and John decided to take care of that later.

Maybe only keep the ones from persons Sherlock actually cared about.

When John lifted Sherlock's other hand from the bed this time the supine man did not pull it away.

"What's wrong with the hand?" he gently asked.

Sherlock opened his eyes, which had closed again, and the doctor briefly wondered if Sherlock would remember this later.

"Need a … bathroom," the detective tried to lift his head.

"No, no! What are you doing?…  You can't get up!… And you do _not_ need a bathroom."

"Need… wash…"

"What?… Why?"

"Ma'ssen touch'me."

"What? No."

What the hell was he talking about?

"Before you were shot?" John tried to find out what this was about.

Had the other man had a nightmare?

"No," Sherlock huffed.

And then John saw a glimpse of what made his intern alarms ring - panic, he was sure it was panic now. "Jus'few moments ago…"

"Sherlock, you are high from the morphine, you hallucinated," he tried to calm them both.

"No!"

Sherlock again tried to lift his torso, getting more and more agitated.

"No! We are not doing _that_ again!" John held his shoulder down.

"The' get me washcloth 'nd soap."

Adrenaline seemed to make the effect of the sedating medications more and more worthless.

"Blimey, Sherlock, calm down and tell me what happened."

John hoped that if he listened his friend he would settle down again.

"Mary'nussen… in here… Sucked or kissed m'hand… Stubble… Disgusting," Sherlock slurred, breathing heavy in between.

"Shit. What else?"

"Couldn't move... Touched… face…"

"With his hand?"

"No, 'is face."

"What?" John once more wondered if Sherlock was hallucinating.

If he was, it was odd, if he was not, this was… horrible.

Sherlock must feel perturbed.

"Feel dirty. Wash, please."

John leaned a bit closer and sniffed.

There was indeed a hint of aftershave in the air that definietely did not belong to Sherlock.

Light horripilation formed on John's back.

Was Sherlock telling the truth?

When their eyes met John realised Sherlock was way more clear than his slurred speech and dopey eyes indicated.

Their gazes met and the sheer desperation John saw in his friends eyes made his flesh crawl even more.

Shit! He was!

"Wait, wait, what did he want?" he tried to find out a bit more.

"Blackmail me… with Mary. Er… feel sick…. Breached."

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John stammered.

"Ge' his… flowers out."

"What flowers?"

"He sent… flow'rs, get themout."

Sherlock was moving around nervously.

"Get me antiseptic… sanitizer or something," Sherlock's speech was getting clearer.

"All right. I'll get something - in a minute. But you need to calm down a bit, first. Okay?"

John let go of his shoulder and firmly stroked his upper arm instead, Sherlock did a deeper breath.

"Did he do something else?"

"Took off oximeter… Put back on later."

Now, that was actually good to find out if this really happened.

What Sherlock was describing sounded too creepy to have really happened and John was not reluctant to assume it had been a nightmare or some kind of nightterror. Some of the medications Sherlock was receiving actually had anxiety as a know side effect.

Relieved to check for some kind of proof John went to the machine and called up the stored history.

He leaned closer to read the recordings and to his horror he saw a short period of time where the machine hadn't recorded any data – just a few minutes ago.

John reached for his phone and dialled Lestrade.

"Hi, Greg… Yeah. Not fine, not really. We have a problem… Sherlock just had an unwelcome visitor, who threatened him… and touched him… Can you put a guard at the door?… Yes… Okay… See you, then."

John rang off and pushed the call button for the nurse.

"Yes?" a voice answered through the intercom.

"This is Dr Watson, I need some antiseptic washing lotion, skin sanitizer, a set of bathing cloths, and some towels, please."

"Yes, doctor," the voice answered kindly.

"Thank you."

When he turned to face his friend, Sherlock had closed his eyes again. John felt his own pulse was fast, the thing had provided him with an adrenaline boost, too.

God, Magnussen really was an arse.

Despite his hypocratic oath John felt the urgent need to kick his teeth in.

Sherlock was so sensitive to touch.

And being touched like this was disgusting.

No wonder Sherlock was agitated and felt dirty.

Had Magnussen really done something similar to _kissing_ Sherlock?

That would be kind of an assault, though probably not meant to be sexual at all. Chances were high it was to humiliate Sherlock, an act similar to urinating in their fireplace. Stepping over the detective's personal boundaries in the most disgusting and belittling way possible.

John felt sick himself even thinking about it.

How must it have felt for Sherlock?

The wounded man was barely able to move, even open his eyes, his mind disoriented from the meds and he was totally helpless in this state, which made the whole thing even more despicable.

Being vulnerable was even more difficult for Sherlock than for other people.

The consultant needed to be in control.

Now it was confirmed it actually was panic John had sensed and still did. Sherlock felt no longer safe here. First he was afraid of Mary coming back to finish her job and now Magnussen violated him like this.

Sighing, John decided he'd do everything he would help to make his friend feel safer again. Otherwise he'd probably have to deal with a second escape in a matter of hours.

"Did he say something else?"

"I… wash…"

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay. It was a dumb question, don't talk, rest. I understand. I'll take care of this, and you won't be alone in here again."

It was obvious that Sherlock was still desperately trying to fight off the drugs, and it really _was_ a fight. Sherlock was shivering from the effort. The man was exhausted and supposed to stay calm and relaxed. This could hurt him further.

"It's all right. Washing stuff is on the way."

Sherlock gave an understanding little huff and gulped.

"Just calm down. Greg will put a guard at the door. No one will come in here again."

A soft knock at the door informed them of the arrival of a nurse aide. When parked the cart and pulled on a pair of clean gloves Sherlock hissed, which John understood as a warning not to touch him.

"Er, thank you, Miss… Can you just leave it here? I'll take care of that."

She looked confused.

"New sheet," Sherlock murmured.

"Could you please bring a new blanket and fresh linens?" John asked the aide.

 She frowned but then seemed to remember she was told to listen to Dr Watson, she bustled off.

"Ta," Sherlock breathed.

"Okay. There's soap and… "

"No… Use alcohol."

"Seriously?... No! I can't wash your face with alcohol."

"Yes. Do it!" Sherlock grunted, unnerved and a bit angry which made him a bit more conscious.

"Whole hand, arm, too," he added.

John bit his lips in sympathy.

What Magnussen had done was really a low blow, hitting Sherlock where he was most vulnerable.

The loss of control a hospital stay and his injury was already an issue for the detective, but using this state to actually assault him, this was simply obnoxious.

But that was probably exactly what Magnussen had intended.

"Yes, alright," the doctor agreed in a low voice, understanding the need to _really_ clean Sherlock from the lingering touch.

John started wetting the warmed cloth generously with skin disinfecting solution.

He soundly cleaned first Sherlock's arm, then every single finger and even wetted a new cloth and repeated the procedure thoroughly on every digit and knuckle. Finally he wiped the oximeter before he put it back onto Sherlock's middle finger.

After a few minutes Sherlock started to relax a bit but was overall pretty tensed up. He endured it all without a twitch or any comment.

When the head nurse brought a new linen they hurried to change the bed together. John saw Sherlock shiver with the cold off the bedding.

"I was informed you had an unwanted visitor…"

John nodded. Sherlock ignored her, his eyes were closed. He hadn't moved or reacted at all since John had started to wash his hand.

"I… " she started but then just pulled a syringe out of her pocket, John understood immediately what it was and nodded.

Without further discussion she injected the content into the IV bag. This would calm him down and help him sleep through the night. John thanked her and she left with a nod.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Can I continue?"

Sherlock tried to blink, but only managed to open his eyes a slit.

Then a slight, tired nod.

"Okay. Keep your eyes closed. I'll take care of your face now. Stop me if it gets too much."

Sherlock held perfectly still and John took his time to do his ministrations in a way that was not only meant to clean the man but also to comfort him, to put a new kind of touch and replace the bad one with it.

He removed the nasal prongs and even wiped them down before replacing them.

Sherlock's eyes had been swollen and wet before, but now they were watering from the additional irritation. His sensitive pale skin became red and was probably also burning, but Sherlock relaxed further and his breathing was slowing down, getting deeper.

"That's good, relax," John encouraged him, "I will take care of this."

A hint of a smile brushed over Sherlock's face before he slipped into sleep once more.

John finished the cleaning with a cloth just wetted with water, then checked the other man's vitals.

The readings were okay looked now.

When he was finally finished and sat down he found he couldn't drink the lukewarm coffee, he still felt slightly nauseous from what he had learned.

.

Twenty minutes later Lestrade knocked and poked his head in. John stepped out to talk to the DI. He did not tell him who had been the visitor, but that Sherlock was agitated after being touched inappropriately and that he felt not good with people getting in unhindered. Greg didn't know yet who had shot his consultant and agreed that it was dangerous without a guard. He perfectly understood and before he left he assured he'd inform the staff and that he'd send someone trustworthy.

Half an hour later a guard appeared.

By then John had returned to Sherlock's side.

The doctor couldn't bring himself to leave his friend and rolled his eyes inwardly about his own protective instinct that had just woken up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the scene shouldn't have been deleted, it kind of underlines that the man is really evil and also a real threat to John and Mary and him.


	9. Recovering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is home from the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

It was the beginning of December and getting cold outside, though the winter seemed to be a mild one. Sherlock had been back in Baker-Street for several weeks now.

Recovery had been slow and after he had been released from hospital he had gone into rehab – it had been a daily fight to keep him there, but  John and the Holmes' parents had put their foot down. Even Lestrade had taken care of keeping him busy while his body healed.

The shooting had been over eight weeks ago and Sherlock still needed help with some things, which was perfectly normal but it made him grumpy and unnerved on a regular basis.

Three times a week a physiotherapist visited 221b. Mycroft had managed to find someone who was enduring Sherlock's endless tries to resist every single exercise and being yelled at least once per week. Stoically the man managed to go through the program, unimpressed.

One evening in early December John decided to make Sherlock concentrate on relaxing and watching a movie, but his flatmate wasn't ready to allow himself to be distracted from the files.

Finally John had realised it was no use, turned down the volume of the telly and tried to watch the film alone.

Sherlock had spread papers, sheets and pictures all over the living room floor and he rounded them constantly to look at them from different angles.

In order to jolly Sherlock along and keep him from destroying the house with nonsense experiments Mycroft and John had asked Lestrade to bring some cold case files over. Sherlock was only allowed to work at cases if he stayed in the flat and did the PT; the consultant detective had agreed to that.

"Slow… too slow…" Sherlock murmured, he had stared at the chaotic floor for minutes in total silence.

"Hm?" John looked away from the TV.

"Why is my brain so slow these days? What is in the meds you make me take all day?" the healing man was unnerved once more.

"Mate, we have been over this – repeatedly. There is nothing in there that is affecting your thinking! You are recovering for god's sake, it is normal _not_ to be on your normal level."

"How do you know? I will analyse all the pills later with Molly."

Exhausted, the doctor rolled his eyes and decided the only thing that would do both of them good was to look at the files - together.

Sherlock had made great progress in getting back to his former shape since he had returned to the flat, it was doing him good to be at home.

Because of the still present constant pain, his inability to move, and his frustration about the whole Magnussen thing, he was a pain in the proverbial.

Still, they were both enjoying living at 221b together.

Their daily routine had switched back to the way it had been for years. John was extremely glad he was not alone there at night any longer. The empty flat just reminded him too much of the time after Sherlock's fall. He was suffering nightmares regularly but they had become less frequent since Sherlock had been release from the clinic.

Life at the flat felt familiar and good.

John had realised during the long nights alone there that the events of the past months were getting to him more than he was ready to admit.

Some nights he didn't sleep at all and he had been seeing his therapist again several times in autumn. It was almost impossible to talk about his issues without unmasking Mary.

Nobody except of course Magnussen knew she was the one who had shot Sherlock and they agreed it needed to stay that way for now. So John was forced to keep the major aspect of his problems hidden, which made the sessions kind of useless.

Sherlock was not talking about his mental state of his own, sometimes though, John saw small glimpses of distress. His friend was experiencing nightmares, too. John had seen and heard it in the hospital and back at home. He assumed that several of the emotions Sherlock had been faced with in the past months were absolutely new to him and he needed his time to sort them out and even find out what they were, to name them.

There was one thing though that was spiking now, Sherlock seemed very protective of John. He had been since his return to London, though John had not noticed it in the beginning. But now Sherlock seemed even anxious when John left his sight and followed him to where he went regularly, sometimes it was almost comical.

It was worrying John a lot but he had decided to leave it until they were both better. 

Instead of watching the movie, they were discussing the crime scene unfolded on the floor in detail now.

Sherlock was comparing the outer circumstances and surroundings of the sites. Then he started unpacking the victim's photos, knelt down and added them into the collage.

The last victim was lying on the ground on paving blocks, blood all over his face - he had been shot... and John felt his blood run cold.

"Well, the victims have been beaten and then shot…" Sherlock elaborated.

The pattern of blood on the victim's face, it looked a bit like Sherlock after the fall, the wet black hair and the open eyes were adding to the impression.

Horrified, John blinked several times to get rid of the association. He slowly blew out his breath to ground himself… His heartbeat was suddenly much too fast.

"Lestrade hinted that the incidents might…"

John stepped back and tried to calm down, this was either a panic attack or a trigger…

"…be connected to --- John?"

Feeling his distress rise, John backed away slightly and turned towards the kitchen to hide it.

"Where are you going? What's happening... John?"

"I need to pee."

Dammit!

He was having trouble hiding his fast breathing, he knew he was about to be pathetic.

"John, I don't believe this is about a bathroom break," Sherlock informed.

"Don't…!"

He was breathing through his teeth and feeling shaky now.

"John… Tell me what's happening…" Sherlock had stood up, too, and was following him now.

The doctor felt reality slip away; he entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Well aware that he'd not be able to stay on his feet much longer so he sat down next to the bathtub and leaned against it, not trusting his legs any longer.

Suddenly, Sherlock was next to him and knelt down with a low grunt.

Privacy seemed to remain a foreign concept to Sherlock. John should have locked the door if he wanted him to stay out.

"John? You're having a panic attack…"

Sherlock was holding out his hands but didn't touch him.

"Go'way!"

 _Was_ this a panic attack?

The feeling of reality being torn away and him losing his footing in it grew stronger…

He had had those episodes before, they came with PTSD, he remembered vividly. 

"I… need some space," he panted.

"I will not leave you alone," Sherlock informed calmly.

Cold fingers sneaked around his wrist.

He tried to draw away but Sherlock was persistent and easily followed his movement.

The touch grounded him and made reality feel a bit more real again.

"John, talk to me… tell me what's happening in your head, now!"

"She… sh-shot you… Oh god… she shot you…" John sounded panicked and angry at once.

"She didn't want to kill me! I am here. I'm fine. Calm down!"

The doctor leaned back his head and closed his eyes. He was trembling and trying to get his breathing under control.

"You haven't had a panic attack in ages, why now?"

"Had them… in past three years. You'ere not there, remem'er?"

Sherlock frowned, he tended to forget - or block out - that the time of his hiatus had been far worse on John than he had expected.

He needed to soften the impact, he had failed to do that before, so he needed to do it better now.

"This will past, just breathe - slowly."

"Don't… I know how this works. Just get out."

"Getting out would probably qualify as rude… and also would be careless, so I will not consider that." Sherlock fetched a large clean towel and made a loose roll, then worked it in between John's neck and the bathtub.

"Concentrate on listening to my breathing… and mimic it, please," Sherlock tried to assist. "You want to lie down?"

John shook his head. He knew it would fuel his panic.

"What do you need?"

John had never imagined Sherlock could ask this question. But he didn't know what he needed right now… and he knew Sherlock had changed a lot… so maybe…

Sherlock took his left hand and to his surprise lifted it to his own throat and pressed it against it.

"John, feel my pulse and know that I am alive… I'm fine."

He held John's hand against his neck and John was indeed able to feel the heartbeat in the blood vessel.

"Concentrate… John!"

"You were dead!… You looked like… That picture… after the fall… And she… she tried to kill you _again_ … How could _she_ do that!" John panted.

"I'm so sorry I made you watch me fall… And Mary tried to safe us all!"

"No… How could… she do that…"

"I am fine, John. Slow down your breathing."

"She… almost killed you. Your heart… stopped…"

"And I decided to come back to you."

"What?… Are you telling me… you had a… a near-death-experience?"

"I was in my mind palace… and I decided I need to be back with you," Sherlock explained.

"God…"

John's breathing was becoming faster again; he jerked his hand back and rubbed his eyes.

"This is nothing to be stressed out about… In fact it was meant to be reassuring."

"I tried… I tried to talk to… to you about how it affects you to have been shot… and you were all…  closed up and now… now you jump out of the box… like that… and…"

John slowly blinked, it was getting harder to breathe again.

"I know what it feels like to be shot… I… being this near death is…" John realised he was fighting tears now.

Sherlock felt for his pulse again and looked into his friend's eyes, he maintained physical contact.

"I am sorry. I will not mention it again."

"No… that's not what I meant… I mean I want to - maybe I even need to - know such stuff… but this was just not the right timing… okay?… I understand why you said it… at that moment, though… Thank you… thank you for not… being dead," John's voice broke and he clenched his teeth to calm his emotions and keep them inside.

"Yes, timing… I'll answer your questions concerning that matter later if you want to ask."

John fought to slow down his breathing rate and raised his eyebrows, kind of thrown off guard about the turns of events of the past two minutes.

Sherlock stood up and went to the kitchen. He fetched a plastic mug, put two teaspoons of sugar into it and then added a bit of water. Stirring the mixture, he came back to the bathroom and knelt down in front of John again, who had managed to regain a bit of his composure.

"Drink. It's water with sugar."

John wrinkled his nose but took the mug with still trembling hands.

For a long moment, he just stared at it, his breathing had calmed down a bit.

Sherlock had changed so much, or was he just thrown out of line after all the events?

His caring side was something not totally new but John was still overrun with it.

The speech Sherlock had done on his wedding was… it was extraordinary on all levels one could examine it… and it showed a whole new side of Sherlock, one John was still not fully understanding.

The doctor looked up into Sherlock's eyes, who were eyeing him intensely.

"Thank you," he sipped the liquid carefully, not wanting to get sick.

Sherlock stood up again and vanished once more.

He was so full of surprises, it still amazed John on a regular basis. This was one of the best things about his friend…

When the other man returned he had a fleece blanket under his arm and two pillows under the other.

"What are you doing?"

"I am not in shape to help you up or to keep you from falling if you get dizzy. Therefore we'll stay here for some more time. You are cold."

"So we are camping in the bathroom?"

"I will make some tea," Sherlock put the stuff down beside him and vanished again.

A moment later the sounds a kettle being filled could be heard.

Sherlock was right.

John was shaky and his blood pressure was probably pretty low - if how he felt was any indication. He fetched a pillow and placed it in his back, then dragged the folded blanket into his lab and hugged it.

Now, he felt exhausted and somehow wounded. He tried to sort out his emotions and the news and… He knew he was staring at the wall but he didn't care.

Several minutes later Sherlock came back in with two steaming mugs.

Slowly, he sat down next to John so they were shoulder to shoulder, handing over one mug.

John took it gratefully.

"I'm sorry… I am still so angry with her."

"I heard somewhere that this is what friends are for," Sherlock informed in his no-nonsense way.

"Got that from a book, too?"

"Obviously."

John chuckled, "I'm really glad you're here with me. Thank you."

Sherlock stared at the wall, John guessed he still didn't know what do to with a compliment other than store the information away.

"You're welcome."

John raised his eyebrows and then chuckled once more.

They talked that night, on the floor. It was emotionally straining but it was healing, for both sides. Although Sherlock might negate that he needed emotional healing at all if he would have been asked later.

 

 


	10. Virgil - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incapacitated by pain and drugs, Sherlock has much too much time to sense and think in the hospital, drifting in and out of consciousness after the Operation, pumped full of medication that isn't agreeing with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incapacitated by pain and drugs, Sherlock has much too much time to sense and think in the hospital, drifting in and out of consciousness after the Operation, pumped full of medication that isn't agreeing with him.  
> This takes places shortly after Mary has told Sherlock to keep quiet, when Sherlock is still rather bad after the first operation. (Between chapters 2 and 3 of this story, I will put it there later, but for now it's here for you to find).  
> I felt the need to add a chapter about Mycroft, I am sure he would have been worried. Also, a review from 'Thanangst' inspired me to add a bit of what we all wanted to see: John holding vigil over a wounded Sherlock. Thank you for that :)  
> So, here is some more vigil: Mycroft (and later John), hope you enjoy
> 
> This happens when Sherlock decides what he executes later (after Janine's visit): thinking about Mary, just that now he isn't clear enough yet, and also in too much pain to dial down the morphine.

 

 

Virgil Part 1 - Mycroft

When Sherlock woke the next time, his return to consciousness was even more unpleasant, because he was aware what awaited him, pain and the obnoxious haze in his mind caused by the _wrong_ drugs. Unfortunately the medication was not strong enough to make him comfortable any longer.

It was no fun.

While he drifted his mind confronted him with a memory... one he needed a moment to sort out.

He had been on his back on the ground, in horrible pain, fighting for control.

Experiencing that had been... unsettling.

But there were more unsettling memories that followed. He wasn't conscious enough to fight the memory's assault.

Moriarty was bending over him, dressed in a straight jacket.

He jerked back to full consciousness, the panic about the proximity of final and eternal oblivion pumping adrenaline into his body.

The disorienting rushing and drumming in his ears gained volume but then something else was there.

Pressure.

"Sherlock?"

His muddled mind needed a moment to sort out that he had really heard a voice in the distance, it was not just in his head.

"Sherlock, calm down."

Pressure on his hand, the awareness that he had a physical body - and didn't consist of just pain in the dark - returned; his right hand was on his chest, rested close to his collarbone. Curled up in pain.

Then he became aware that a _foreign_ hand was holding it, squeezing it carefully.

He knew _that_ touch... and that voice, though for a very long agonising moment everything that wasn't pain was hard to focus on.

He exhaled, and it was like pushing out a grey fog, his lungs expanded with the new inhale, bad smells burning in his lungs.

It hurt.

The next inhale was careful and noisy, a small noise of pain escaped him.

Only a moment later he recognised the smell and tensed.

Mycroft.

"Sherlock, you are okay," his brother said in a low voice.

The memory of the intense pain - which he had felt while hovering so close to death and that had almost made his body decide it wasn't willing to endure life any longer - returned.

It was no longer a memory - the apple-green agony was blinding and present.

The tears of pain he had shed, crumpled on the ground of Moriarty's cell brought once more wetness to his eyes. He desperately tried to hold them back, but this time his brother saw them.

He felt humiliated.

He wanted to go back to oblivion, wanted to escape feeling this.

Mycroft said nothing and the touch disappeared.

He was disoriented and unable to move, when he managed to open his eyes the lights were dim and his vision blurred, the world was spinning. He decided to keep them closed, it was not worth the effort.

Muscle relaxants?

But nevertheless more tears ran down his face.

His breathing was stuttering and the unnerving tone of the heart monitor grated on his nerves.

At least Mycroft had left...

... but then the touch returned, without words.

A hand came to rest on his head and a cold cloth wiped his face, removed the residues of  weakness and desperation.

The last time he had seen Mycroft he had shoved him against a door, twisted his hand and they had threatened each other.

That was only hours ago, but it felt like weeks had passed.

How long had he been unconscious?

How many days ago had he been shot?

"It was the day before yesterday, brother dear."

Damn Mycroft's deducing abilities; they were as obnoxious as ever.

His brother's voice though, carried worry and patience, nothing left of the carefully controlled anger about his drug use or the obvious resentment of his investigation against Magnussen.

But no doubt it was only a matter of time until he'd be pestered with Mycroft's opinion about breaking in there and where it brought him.

"Yes, that was very stupid," his sibling commented as if he was able to hear his thoughts.

He ignored him.

And _the_ question - as soon as he'd be half aware everyone would ask him who the shooter was.

He couldn't answer them.

If John asked... he couldn't tell him, not _yet_ at least... John would at first not believe him, at second tell him he had dreamt or hallucinated and at last leave in anger.

The events threatened to harm their relationship. He needed to be careful with handling that, it was too precious.

If Lestrade asked he had to remain silent because of the man's job, there was no way this could be solved via official police work.

And Mycroft was the last person he could tell. The machinery that would spring into action as a result might as well be all their downfall.

No doubt Mycroft had started to investigate Mary as soon as she spent more than just a few minutes at Baker Street and intensified when John proposed to her.

That was about it, the persons he could trust.

He felt as if inside a foggy glass vessel, unable to communicate, not just because of the drugs that clouded his mind, but also because of the consequences.

He couldn't make a decision like _this_ , he needed a clear mind, and right now it was not available.

He considered manipulating the morphine pump, but the sheer memory of the pain was enough to recoil mentally and physically.

It was all too fresh.

The things he had lived through when his heart stopped had left a dark area in his soul, full of desperation and an impediment sense of horror.

"Sherlock, calm down. You need to relax," his brother said in the distance.

It took him a moment to realise that he was feeling worse than even a few moments before, the memories of being at death's door he had just touched lightly were effecting his body, his heart was beating too fast and his sped up breathing hurt.

Breathing wasn't boring currently, it was a source of constant pain. He felt bad, not only in a physical way.

Being this near death had affected him, there was no denying.

As had the anaesthesia, which usually had a similar devastating effect.

Since both felt like something unbelievable horrible was lurking in the dark, the resulting distress was barely manageable under the influence of drugs.

Both these factors were currently adding to each other's existence, quite inconvenient. Life had become a living nightmare from which there was no waking up.

He was a mess.

The altered state of mind the anaesthesia caused on top of it all made him more than depressive, he was aware, but unable to stop it from happening.

"Sherlock?"

A hand slid into his left again, held it for a moment, then worked on gently uncurling it.

He only now realised he had tensed up, made a loose fist - he was too weak to even make a proper one.

But unfolding his hands was more difficult than Mycroft had thought.

"You're fine, relax."

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if he could.

Mycroft this un-harsh was unsettling, the mild tone of his voice was, too.

Well, the tone was soft, but it was the usual no-nonsense style.

The last time he had heard him speak like this was when he had gone through withdrawal on his own. Mycroft had found him and stayed by his side when he refused to go to the hospital.

In the end they both had looked like death warmed over, it had been totally unnecessary for his brother to confront himself with this, up to today he didn't know why he cared. Especially since his sibling frequently reminded Sherlock what a mistake it was to care.

Why that?

He hadn't known then and still didn't know.

Was Mycroft planning to stay?

He wanted him to piss off.

"I won't, brother dear, get used to it. Your dear doctor needs a break, so you're stuck with me for the time being."

Had he spoken out loud?

No, definitely not.

He had been completely still, was far too weak to move, and his throat was still sore from the tube.

Being incarcerated by his transport was nasty. He had to wait, just wait until it recovered. The ugly truth was this would take a very long time.

He wanted John.

"He's getting a break. He has been here for over 24 hours. I send him home to have a shower and get some sleep. But I think he ignored me and went to the cafeteria instead."

Sherlock smirked internally.

 

"You told him you didn't see who shot you. I don't believe you. You're protecting someone. And who in the world would _you_ protect... Funny, there's only one goldfish that seems to be worth this level of devotion."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, Mycroft was getting there fast.

Mary's betrayal had caught him off guard.

Yes, there was always _something_ , but this was -- he had no words for it. Never before in his life had he felt this deceived.

Was that even the right word for this emotion? It was quite new to him.

Aghast?

Bewildered?

Of course he had been lied to before, had been bullied, had been betrayed, but usually not by people he trusted... The one exception was Mycroft.

That had been bad, but that had also been a very long time ago.

It had damaged him, had damaged his ability to trust people. But it had not only damaged him, Mycroft had changed, too. And sometimes he had the impression his brother was trying to make it up to him, although he fought against it, not able to consider anything that touched that topic.

And he was not ready to think about that now.

He had let _her_ in, had entrusted her with John.

Of course he had deduced she was a liar, had even known that there were big lies, but this, this was different, this touched a part of his inner core he hadn't even known he was capable of. It was a place solemnly for John.

She had gained access, too, so he had allowed her in, assuming she was a part of John. Assumed she had only his wellbeing at heart.

But right now, he wasn't certain any longer.

She had seen John suffering after his faked death, had taken part in his recovery, she should be well aware how close his death had brought John to give up himself. And now that he had carefully forgiven Sherlock and had started to trust him again, it was questionable if the doctor would survive this a second time. She had risked his _death_ , there must be a logical reason for that, he was just not able to think properly, it irked him, the impossibility to make deductions.

He struggled to clear his mind.

"Sherlock, just don't fight it, get some sleep."

He wished Mycroft would shut up, he was disrupting his sparsely ability to think even more.

Repeatedly, he tried to enter the mind palace, but the medication was affecting him in a way that kept him from entering most of the time. Twice he actually managed to get in, but it was all dark inside and when he tried to move invisible obstacles prevented any progress or advance.

So he tried to think without it.

Maybe she just wanted him gone, not matter what, but he had never thought she could be this cold, or that there might be a point of view from which this made logical sense...but, those were emotions some women had - men too - weren't they?

Base motives were still a mystery to him, he couldn't really comprehend people had those, he just knew they were there, unaware what most of them they felt like.

But usually Mary was not the type to act on those, this must be more complex. Sure, she liked to make jokes about them, but act on it?

Nevertheless, the tremendousness of her actions were hard to reconstruct. The atrociousness of the act against John touched something deep inside his core... he hurt on John's behalf, more than on his own. 

He didn't know how to handle that, or her, not at the moment at least, he _needed_ to think, _needed_ to figure it out.

But he couldn't, his drug induced stupidity made him agitated.

Thinking was taking its toll, it took more energy than he had and he drifted off once more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Special thanks for those who supported me with feedback and kudos, you're great!
> 
> I recently started producing fanart, check it out, it's here in my account.


	11. Virgil Part 2 – Mycroft and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and John staying with Sherlock who is out of his mind from the pain his injury causes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

**Virgil Part 2 – Mycroft and John**

 

When Sherlock managed to open his eyes again, Mycroft had left.

Now that he was the only person in the room for longer than a few seconds, he had to admit it felt not-good.

Before, he had wished for privacy, but now that it was present, it caused an unsettling dark vibrating undertone in the detective's mind.

In hindsight Sherlock understood his sibling might have tried to 'entertain' him, kept him from sliding any deeper into his sinister musings. On some occasions Mycroft had done that in their youth, too, by being his obnoxious self, by overtexting him, by just being there and providing input.

Why was he only doing that when Sherlock was incapacitated and unable to bridle?

Right, because he wouldn't allow it otherwise, would shove him away, would escape if that didn't work, or would verbally and with all other means fight him.

Maybe it was Mycroft's way of revenge to talk the living daylights out of him; usually Sherlock was the one doing most of the talking.

Now that he thought about it... Mycroft hadn't said anything particularly 'un-nice' during his visit.

He was too drained to keep his mind awake and gladly slipped back into oblivion, being awake was awkward and painful.

But it didn't last long, he resurfaced what felt like only moments later.

To his dismay not John but his brother had returned and was once more sitting next to him. The younger Holmes kept his eyes closed, but the noise of Mycroft's breathing and his after-shave diverted him from thinking.

Why didn't he just leave?

Surely he had better things to do.

"I feel the need to make sure you are as comfortable as possible."

His pure presence was enough to make him uncomfortable, especially after the events of their last meeting.

"If you'd give in to the medication and do what every sensible person would do in your situation - which is sleep by the way - you wouldn't even know I was here."

Sherlock grunted in displeasure.

"Can't you just once in a while listen to me? I know I haven't given you much reason in the past to trust me, but just every 64th time or so you could try... please? It threatens my sanity to see you in this much pain," Mycroft sighed close to him.

What isn't there can't be threatened.

"I haven't changed my mind about the Magnussen thing, but certainly I didn't expect this to happen... Who did this, Sherlock? Was it Magnussen?"

Sherlock remained silent and concentrated on dialling down the pain the hole in his body radiated.

It was intense and it was spreading. He felt as if there were flames all over his torso. It was getting worse.

It's not that bad, Sherlock tried to convince to himself.

"Yes, it is. You are in a lot of pain, why deny it?"

 

John headed back to the floor where Sherlock's room was, he had had a coffee in the cafeteria, which was better than expected. He wasn't sure if he was ready to leave Sherlock to his brother's care for the night and had tried to clear his mind before checking on them again. When he returned to the outside of the room he looked in through the window.

Mycroft was sitting close to his sibling and was clearly talking to him.

John frowned.

Had Sherlock fully woken up?

His friend had drifted in and out of consciousness for hours, which wasn't unusual due to the medication he was receiving and the after-effects of anaesthesia.

He watched the brothers for a moment, but Sherlock was completely still and showing no sign of wakefulness at all, although Mycroft looked as if he was in a completely normal conversation, expressions, gestures and all.

A bit curious John continued to observe.

When he saw Sherlock twitch suddenly he winced, wondering if he had just woken for real.

The really amazing thing that happened then was that Mycroft stood up and reached for his little brother's hand, gently squeezing it and holding it for several seconds before he let go again.

For a moment, the doctor felt like a voyeur, observing the older Holmes' trying to comfort the younger one.

It was a private moment.

The doctor turned away to give them some space, then decided to have a short walk through the halls.

He knew Mycroft cared, but they almost never touched.

John understood the dynamics between the brothers had changed during the time of Sherlock's two year long absence.

On one hand they were more open with each other, discussing things John never thought were possible, but on the other hand they were also more painstakingly aggressive in their uttered attitudes and dislike sometimes. It seems they had gathered aversion as well as fondness.

Mycroft was clearly more protective about Sherlock than he had been before the fall.

It was the one thing John trusted Mycroft with and the reason why he called him after the positive drugs test.

 

_A few hours earlier_

_John had been surprised when the older Holmes had suddenly appeared outside the hospital room and eyed them through the large observation window, mustering his sibling closely for some long moments._

_Slowly and as silent as he could, John had stood up._

_He knew Mycroft had been pulling strings in the background, had made sure John could stay no matter what time of day._

_John joined him in the hall and closed the door._

_"How is he?" Mycroft asked in a low voice, as if fearing Sherlock might hear him through the wall._

_"Where is the use in staying in the background? He needs to know you are here," John bombarded the man without introduction, although his voice remained low. "I know you can't have his back in this officially, but could you for once just be a family member and provide some comfort? Respect the man that he is and the fact that he is willing to fight for justice, fight someone who does as much damage as Magnussen?"_

_John bit his tongue, he hadn't wanted to continue this conversation here but Mycroft's behaviour earlier had been on his mind for the past few hours._

_"John," the other man greeted him. "Please keep your voice down and don't mention that name in public."_

_During the past twelve hours John had called him about a dozen times and although Mycroft had asked for the medical side of things and seemed to be updated about his sibling's state of health in real time, he had refused to come by._

_Nevertheless, he was there now._

_Before, while trying to convince the older Holmes to come over on the phone, John had expressed his disapproval in colourful detail._

_"They gave up on him when his heart stopped. He was on his own, as so often in his life. He had to gather the strength and struggle for life all by himself!" John had yelled into the mobile._

_"I am sure he doesn't want my company, so why don't you stick to his bedside and please him?"_

_"This might have more devastating effects on the human soul than most people think. Being shot causes emotions and horrors to stir many people aren't even aware exist. He has been in a very bad place, still is," John continued._

_"He is used to it. He has been in this kind of situation before," the older Holmes said coldly over the phone._

_"Mycroft, are you nuts?… Shit… Really?"_

_"There is no need to insult me. Though I may assume you are a bit beside yourself after the events of last night."_

_"You mean during his... the hunt for Moriarty's men? Well, that is actually proving my point. Who was there with him? Who had his back? As I understand you were drawing strings in the back but he was the one who had to face all kinds of demons... alone!"_

_"I tried my best."_

_There was a long silence on the line._

_John realised his outburst might be incomprehensible, but he had been over hours of worrying and he was tired and his unexpressed frustration and stress had piled up._

_Nevertheless, he understood he had hit some sore point, but couldn't put a finger on what it was, just that it was something deep and that Mycroft was holding something back. He wished he wasn't on the phone but seeing the other man's face._

_"You went with him to do legwork?" he poked._

_"No. Only to Serbia. But he trusted the safe haven I was able to offer on several occasions."_

_"What does that mean?"_

_Mycroft just sighed and John realised this was not the time to dig deeper._

_"Right. We are here, and it's something very disturbing to experience death this up close. He needs support right now. He knows he wants company. He would have fought me viciously if he didn't."_

_"Is that your modus operandum, if he doesn't fight you, he agrees?"_

_"Don't turn my words in my mouth, you know what I mean. He can't ask and he can't express his emotions, even if he wanted to. You know exactly what I mean."_

_"Being shaken by such an event is absolutely normal, as is wanting company."_

_"And what makes you think he shares your 'average' psychological emotions and experiences? My brother is different."_

_"I know, so get in here and protect that difference, he needs it."_

_John had then hung up without waiting for an answer._

_And here Mycroft was, he had come to see his sibling._

_John continued their earlier conversation, "We already missed the chance to keep him off the drugs. Any theories why he might have turned to them in the first place?"_

_Mycroft looked away and with a pang of guilt John realised he might know or apprehended more than John did._

_When the older Holmes kept his silence, he continued._

_"Maybe the relapse happened because he needed an escape from what he has been through. And now, we have this one chance to soften the impact of this, so lets do it. What is ahead of him won't be easy, he needs every support he can get."_

_"I never even tried to_ not _give him my best support, so what are you insinuating? The drug issues just gained momentum, getting him off them will be even more difficult now that he gets this kind of painkillers. I agree with you, he has even more reasons to seek relief after the recent events... Why are we discussing this? You_ know _I worry constantly."_

_"I am not asking you to worry, I am asking you to be a good brother and actually be present, provide a safe haven once more. Mycroft, I don't know what happened between you two in the past. Why don't you just tell me so I know how to handle this."_

_"Unacceptable."_

_John hadn't dared to hope he'd get a straight answer, but God had he tried to figure this out over the years. At first he had just thought it was sibling rivalry, but after the years he had known them, he had changed his mind. It was something much more sinister and far-reaching._

_"Go home. I will look after him for the night."_

_When John hesitated, the older Holmes added, "Fine, if you feel unable to leave then at least get a break and have a coffee."_

_"Alright. I'll be back in a bit, text me if you need to leave."_

_"I will stay. For the night in case you chose to get some rest. He'll need you rested once he wakes up."_

The initial telephone call had taken place five hours ago and Mycroft had arrived almost an hour ago and was still present. John hadn't dared to hope he would actually stay for more than five minutes, therefore he hadn't gone far, also he felt unable to leave his best friend alone in a situation like this.

John's stroll finally brought him back to Sherlock's room, and he once more was gazing into the room, trying to conceive the situation. He couldn't stay away, he was drawn back, as if anxious that his best friend might vanish again.

But before he had time to really observe their interaction once more Mycroft turned towards the window and spotted him.

He said something to his sibling and stood up, then entered the hallway.

For a moment, they silently stood there, side by side, both staring in through the window.

"You are aware he is too much out of it to understand you properly? He's probably just babbling when he talks, he won't remember most of it."

"I advice caution with this kind of attitude, my brother is conscious enough to receive everything if he chooses to, and if he is awake, he understands every single word that is bandied... He hasn't said a word, though. He certainly doesn't want to be, but he _is_ aware. He is also unwell… Don't underestimate his level of consciousness due to the dose of medication. He senses more than he wants to and he is in quite some pain. This is only partially self-inflicted by his former substance abuse. His ability to 'go under' was already impaired when he was a child."

"Are you saying he deserves being in pain as a punishment for his drug use?"

"No. I am saying behave as if he is awake and can't answer. Which is quite an ordeal for him."

"Right. Sorry."

"He's in severe pain," Mycroft underlined by repeating himself, which he rarely did, a clear sign of his own distress.

"I know, but his doctor thinks he had enough painkillers."

"Then you need to talk to that doctor."

"I'm as uneasy about this as you are, but I don't want them to sedate him and neither..."

"They will listen to you, they did before. Consider easing _not_ his physical but his mental agony, it will help the other first if you take care for the latter."

"Mental? What the hell are you saying, Mycroft?"

"That he needs a break from _thinking_."

"I'm not sure I understand..."

"Well, surely there is medication for _this_ he can have in his state. You'll have trouble on your hands if he gets bored or decides he needs to escape his own circling thoughts."

"More information if you don't mind…"

"I meant that when he gets bored or thinks too much, 'things' will happen. He is clearly already starting to ponder more than is good for him. His dazed mind might make odd choices. You'll regret not having done anything to prevent that."

"Err, shit, Mycroft. What...?"

"Yes. You are the doctor, find a solution. You'll be listened to by his 'official' doctor, he will be happy to consider your advice, as you have seen before."

"It was you then, who..."

"Of course, do you think they let you interfere just because you showed them your license? I will talk to them if you don't."

Of course not. It was Mycroft Bloody Holmes who was the British Government.

John's jaw tightened, unsure yet if the kind of drugs the older Holmes was suggesting were in Sherlock's interest.

But his friend had been agitated and given them cause to worry, although no one had deemed it to be an issue as significant as Mycroft did now.

"Glad you share my interest in his wellbeing, Doctor," his tone was soft now and John could hear the worry, though it was carefully tugged away and he was only able to spot it because he knew the Holmes brothers this well.

With that the man in the posh suit nodded a greeting and turned away. A moment later he had walked into a lift. Sometimes John wondered if Mycroft had the same gift of calling lifts that Sherlock had of calling cabs.

The doctor decided to sit with Sherlock and observe him closely before considering the suggestion in earnest.

When Sherlock woke again something was different, more time than usual between his periods of waking up had passed… and - more important - the quality off his floating had changed.

He felt spaced out in a completely odd and unsettling _different_ way.

After a moment he realised that this was part of the problem itself; he _should_ feel distraught, just that he didn't really experienced it.

His brain knew this should be unsettling, but the feeling just wasn't there any longer, it _had_ been, he remembered it clearly.

He needed a long moment to deduce that he must have been given some of those 'not-giving-a-shit pills' - as John called them sometimes - just not as a pill but directly through his IV port.

His agitation from before was only a vague memory.

To make sure he couldn't care less about _anything_ distressing for now, he hauled back the memory of Moriarty in the padded mind cell while he was out of his mind from the pain, but even graphically remembering that situation failed to cause any panic.

For god's sake!

But even that wasn't anger, he just didn't care, just _knew_ he should be angry about it.

Whatever…

He blinked and saw John sitting in a chair next to the bed, still in the same clothes and unshaven.

Outside, the misty but sunny atmosphere indicated the sun had risen not that long ago. Mercifully, John had lowered the shades and thoroughly aired the room - and he had slept through that.

"There you are. How are you doing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, feeling unable to speak - or just too lazy.

"Yeah, it's alright."

He grunted in disapproval, but the larger part of his brain was glad John was here and Mycroft was not.

His mind was aware he should be annoyed and make a nasty remark about the stupidity of the idea to be given _this_ kind of medication but he couldn't be bothered to be angry at all.

"It's going to be alright, Sherlock. Mycroft was a bit of a twit, but I am sure you already figured out what he opted for, your doctors shared his opinion - at least for now. My refusal was _noted_. But I have to admit I understand the reasoning. So you better behave and get better. You're going to be fine."

John smiled down at him and waited for several moments, probably he was just now realising Sherlock was in fact listened to him.

"Mycroft left some books, I must say they sound interesting, I mean _really_ interesting. I could read them to you. Let's see... What about this one... it's quite new and about Canine Olfaction in Science* - or something. Mycroft thought you might like it."

Without waiting for an answer, he opened the book and started to read.

Sherlock missed the introduction almost entirely since his thoughts were _trying_ to race but only managing snail speed... and when memories of Redbeard resurfaced he found he could just watch them pass without any feelings of sorrow coming up. In awe about that he spaced out for a bit, just watching the pictures and memories fly by. It was nice to just watch his childhood companion for a while.

When John said, "Chapter One," he was dragged back to his softened reality and started to listen.

It was slow way of gaining information, but his mind was slow anyway.

Information like this transported by John's soothing voice was something new.

He had missed that voice so much during his time away, he had welcomed the odd comments from the mind palace floating into his reality, even when they said nasty things.

It was good to indulge in listening to it and fill a new mind palace room with this knowledge wrapped in John's unique pattern of speech.

Thank goodness John was there.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This book was actually published in early 2016 (but the events depicted in the episode took place in 2014) but since there might be a dog involved in season 4 I thought this might be a funny reference to that.  
> PS: This chapter was written and first published in summer of 2016 and I was so happy that so many little details I came up with fitted perfectly well with the new season four.  
> The next part of this series will deal with the issues/pain of S4.
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N:  
> I am not a medical professional, so my use of medicine might not be accurate. 
> 
> For now, this is the last chapter I have in store for this, but if you have a scene in mind that is missing and no one has written yet, I might be ready to think about it. 
> 
> A big fat 'Thank you!' to everyone out there who was reading, following, bookmarking and commenting my works, you guys are great! This means a lot to me :)  
> Feedback is very welcome!
> 
> I recently started producing fanart, check it out, it's here in my account.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)  
> Please leave some feedback if you like my work.


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